THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


(To 


IT          BBS  S .   r    ®    6S    I  RJ 


BY  T.  S.  ARTHUR. 


BOSTON: 
L.  P.  CROWN  &  CO.,  61  CORNHILL. 

PHILADELPHIA : 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  48  N.  FOURTH  ST. 
1856. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

J.  W.  BRADLEY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  1.  JOHNSON  i  CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


rs 


ARE  you  under  a  cloud,  reader?  Or,  does  the 
sunshine  lie  broad  on  your  summer  way?  If  the 
shadows  are  thick  around  you,  fear  not,  faint  not, 
falter  not — the  sun  is  bright  as  ever  in  the  heavens 
above,  and  the  cloudy  curtains  will,  ere  long,  be 
drawn  aside ;  but,  if  all  is  brightness  and  beauty, 
walk  not  onward  too  confidently,  for  shadows  as 
well  as  sunbeams  are  on  every  path  of  life,  and 
yours  will  be  no  exception.  Yet,  bear  this  in  mind ; 
we  make,  in  nearly  all  cases,  our  own  shadow  and 
our  own  sunlight.  If  we  were  wise  and  good,  no 
clouds  would  obscure  our  firmament;  it  is  from  our 
ignorance  and  selfishness  that  the  murky  exhala 
tions  arise  which  darken  the  sky  above  us.  Let  us, 
then,  seek  for  heavenly  Wisdom,  and  she  will  take 
us  by  the  hand  and  lead  us  on  to  Goodness.  The 

1 1.17369       * 


PREFACE. 


way  in  which  we  go,  having  Wisdom  for  a  guide, 
will  be  darkened  by  few  shadows,  and  these  will 
grow  fewer  and  feebler  with  every  advancing  foot 
step. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQ» 

THE  COLPORTEUR 9 

WORSE  ENEMIES  THAN  LIONS  AND  TIGERS 18 

A  LESSON  FROM  THE  BEES 27 

THE  BROKEN  HEART 34 

THE  LONE  OLD  MAN 89 

A  NEW  EXPERIENCE  IN  LIFE 103 

THE  LITTLE  MAID  OF  ALL  WORK 118 

LOOK  AT  THE  BRIGHT  SIDE 131 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  JOE  BARKER 142 

ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS 162 

THE  COQUETTE 185 

MR.  WlNKLEMAN  AT  HOME 198 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON 201 


SHADOWS  AND  SUNBEAMS. 


THE  COLPORTEUR. 

" WHICH  way,  stranger?"  said  a  rough-looking 
farmer,  to  a  man  who  was  carrying  a  well-filled  va 
lise.  The  latter  was  in  the  act  of  raising  the  latch 
of  a  gate,  which  opened  from  the  public  road  into  a 
narrow  lane  leading  to  a  small  country-house  of  no 
very  inviting  aspect. 

The  person  thus  addressed  turned  and  fixed  a 
pair  of  mild,  yet  steady  and  penetrating  eyes,  upon 
the  speaker. 

"Which  way,  stranger?"  was  repeated,  though 
in  modified  and  more  respectful  tones. 

"Who  lives  there?"  said  the  stranger,  pointing 
to  the  house  just  in  view  from  the  road. 

"Dick  Jones,"  was  answered. 

"What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?"  next  inquired  the 
stranger. 

"Rather  a  hard  case.  You'd  better  not  go 
there." 

"Why?" 

"Aint  you  the  man  that  sells  Bibles  and  talks 
religion?" 

"Suppose  I  am?" 

9 


10  THE    COLPORTEUR. 


'Take  a  friend's  advice  then,  and  keep  away 
from  Dick  Jones.  He'll  insult  you — may  be,  do 
worse." 

"I  reckon  not,"  replied  the  colporteur,  for  such 
he  was. 

"He  will,  as  sure  as  fate.  I've  heard  him  say, 
over  and  over  again,  that  if  one  of  you  Bible-sellers 
dared  to  come  inside  of  his  gate,  he'd  set  his  dogs 
on  you.  And  he's  just  the  man  to  keep  his  word. 
So,  take  a  friend's  advice,  and  let  him  alone.  No 
good  will  come  of  it." 

"Has  he  a  wife  and  children?"  inquired  the  col 
porteur. 

"A  wife  and  two  little  boys." 

"What  kind  of  a  woman  is  his  wife?" 

"Oh,  she'll  do  well  enough.  But  neighbours 
don't  go  there  much  on  account  of  her  husband, 
who  is  a  very  imp  of  Satan,  if  the  truth  must  be 
spoken." 

"Like  the  blessed  Master,"  was  replied  to  this, 
"I  come  not  to  call  the  righteous,  but  sinners  to  re 
pentance.  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  the  Bible  is 
most  needed  at  Dick  Jones's;  and  I  am  bound  to 
place  one  there." 

"Oh,  very  well.  Follow  your  own  bent,"  said 
the  farmer,  slightly  annoyed  at  the  other's  perti 
nacity.  "You'll  remember  that  I  warned  you, 
when  his  dogs  are  at  your  heels  or  his  horsewhip 
over  your  shoulders.  So,  good  morning  to  you." 

"Good  morning,"  returned  the  stranger,  cheer 
fully,  as  he  threw  open  the  ill-hung  gate,  and  en 
tered  the  forbidden  grounds  of  Dick  Jones. 

Now,  our  brave  friend,  the  colporteur,  was  not  a 


THE   COLPORTEUR.  11 


strong,  robust  man,  able  to  meet  and  resist  physical 
violence.  In  the  use  of  carnal  weapons  he  had  no 
skill.  But  he  had  a  confident  spirit,  a  strong  heart, 
and,  above  all,  an  unwavering  confidence  in  the  pro 
tecting  power  of  Him  in  whose  service  he  was  de 
voting  his  life. 

Even  on  the  grounds  of  Dick  Jones  the  birds 
sang  sweetly,  the  cool  breezes  sported  amid  the 
leafy  branches,  and  the  breaths  of  a  thousand 
flowers  mingled  their  fragrance  on  the  air;  and, 
even  as  the  colporteur  trod  these  grounds,  he  felt 
and  enjoyed  the  tranquil  beauty  and  peace  of  na 
ture.  There  was  no  shrinking  in  his  heart.  He 
was  not  in  terror  of  the  lions  that  crouched  on  his 
path.  Soon  he  stood  at  the  open  door  of  a  house, 
around  which  was  no  air  of  comfort,  nor  a  single 
vestige  .of  taste. 

"Who's  there?  What's  wanted?"  was  the  repul 
sive  salutation  of  a  woman,  who  hurriedly  drew  an 
old  handkerchief  across  her  brown  neck  and  half- 
exposed  bosom,  on  seeing  a  stranger. 

"May  God's  peace  be  on  this  house!"  said  the 
colporteur,  in  a  low,  reverent  voice,  as  he  stood, 
one  foot  on  the  ground,  and  the  other  across  the 
threshold. 

A  change  passed  instantly  over  the  woman's  face. 
Its  whole  expression  softened.  But  she  did  not  in 
vite  the  stranger  to  enter. 

"Go — go,"  she  said,  in  a  hurried  voice.  "Go 
away  quickly !  My  husband  will  be  here  directly, 
and  he " 

She  paused,  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished,  as 
if  reluctant  to  speak  what  was  in  her  mind. 


THE   COLPORTEUR. 


"Why  should  I  go  away  quickly?"  asked  the 
stranger,  as  he  stepped  into  the  room,  taking  off 
his  hat  respectfully,  and  seating  himself  in  a  chair. 
"  I  wish  to  see  and  speak  with  your  husband.  Mr. 
Jones,  I  believe,  is  his  name?" 

"Yes,  sir,  his  name  is  Jones.  But  he  don't  want 
to  see  you." 

"Don't  want  to  see  me!  How  do  you  know? 
Who  am  I?" 

"I  don't  know  your  name,  sir,"  answered  the 
woman,  timidly ;  "  but  I  know  who  you  are.  You 
go  around  selling  good  books  and  talking  religion  to 
the  people." 

"True  enough,  Mrs.  Jones,"  said  the  colporteur, 
seriously,  yet  with  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face  as 
he  spoke.  "And  I  have  come  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  your  husband,  and  see  if  I  can't  get  him 
to  buy  some  of  my  good  books.  Have  you  a 
Bible?" 

"No,  sir.  My  husband  says  he  hates  the  Bible. 
When  we  were  first  married,  I  had  an  old  Testa 
ment,  but  he  never  could  bear  to  see  me  reading  it. 
Somehow,  it  got  lost;  I  always  thought  he  carried 
it  away,  or  threw  it  into  the  fire.  He  won't  talk 
to  you,  sir.  He  won't  have  your  books.  He's  a 
very  bad  tempered  man,  sometimes,  and  I'm  afraid 
he'll  do  you  harm.  0  sir,  I  wish  you  would  go 
away." 

But,  instead  of  showing  any  alarm  or  anxiety  at 
Mrs.  Jones's  account  of  her  husband,  the  stranger 
commenced  opening  his  valise,  from  which  he  soon 
produced  a  plainly  bound  copy  of  the  Bible. 

"How  long  since  you  were  married?"  asked  the 


THE   COLPORTEUR.  13 


colporteur,  as  he  opened  the  Bible  and  commenced 
turning  over  the  leaves. 

"Twelve  years  come  next  May,  sir,"  was  an 
swered. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  lost  the  Testament?" 

"Most  eleven  years." 

"Do  you  go  to  church?" 

"To  church  I"  The  woman  looked  surprised  at 
the  question.  "Dear  sakes,  no!  I  haven't  been 
inside  of  a  church  since  I  was  married." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go?" 

"What  'ud  be  the  use?  I  wouldn't  say  'church' 
to  Dick  for  the  world." 

"Then  you  haven't  read  the  Bible  yourself,  nor 
heard  anybody  else  read  it,  since  you  lost  the  Tes 
tament?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  You  shall  have  that  blessed  privilege  once  again 
in  your  life,"  said  the  stranger,  raising  the  book 
toward  his  eyes,  and  making  preparation  to  read. 

"Indeed,  sir,  I'm  afraid.  I'm  looking  for  my 
husband  every  minute,"  interposed  the  woman. 
"He's  always  said  he'd  kick  the  first  Bible-seller 
out  of  his  house  that  dared  to  cross  his  door.  And 
he'll  do  it.  He's  very  wicked  and  passionate,  some 
times.  Do,  sir,  please  go  away.  If  I  had  any 
money,  I'd  take  the  Bible  and  hide  it  from  him; 
1  ut  I  haven't.  Please  don't  stay  any  longer.  Don't 
Login  to  read.  If  he  comes  in  and  finds  you  read 
ing,  he'll  be  mad  enough  to  kill  you." 

But,  for  all  this,  the  colporteur  sat  unmoved.  As 
the  woman  ceased  speaking,  he  commenced  reading 
to  her  the  beautiful  chapter  from  our  Lord's  sermon 


14  THE   COLPORTEUR. 


on  the  mount,  beginning  with — "  Take  heed  that  ye 
do  not  your  alms  before  men  to  be  seen  of  them ; 
otherwise  ye  have  no  reward  of  your  Father  which 
is  in  heaven."  As  he  proceeded  in  a  low,  distinct, 
reverential  voice,  the  woman's  agitation  gradually 
subsided,  and  she  leaned  forward  listening  more  and 
more  intently,  until  all  thoughts  and  feelings  were 
absorbed  in  the  holy  words  that  were  filling  her 
ears.  When  the  colporteur  finished  the  chapter,  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  woman,  and  saw 
that  it  was  wet  with  tears.  At  that  instant,  a  form 
darkened  the  door.  It  was  the  form  of  Dick  Jones. 

"Ha!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  harsh  voice.  "What's 
this?  Who  are  you?" 

Comprehending  now  the  scene  before  him,  Jones 
began  swearing  awfully,  at  the  same  time  ordering 
the  stranger  to  leave  his  house,  threatening  to  kick 
him  from  the  door  if  he  didn't  move  instantly.  The 
tearful  wife  stepped  between  her  husband  and  the 
object  of  his  wrath;  but  he  swept  her  aside  roughly 
and  with  curses. 

"Go,  before  I  fling  you  into  the  road!"  And 
the  strong  man,  every  iron  muscle  tense  with  anger, 
stood  towering  above  the  stranger's  slender  form, 
like  an  eagle  above  its  helpless  prey. 

How  calm  and  fearless  the  stranger  sat,  his  mild, 
deep,  almost  spiritual  eyes,  fixed  on  those  of  his 
mad  assailant. 

"  Bless  the  Lord,  0  my  soul,  and  forget  not  all 
his  benefits." 

Low  yet  thrilling  was  the  voice  in  which  these 
words  found  almost  spontaneous  utterance.  He 
had  taken  no  forethought  as  to  what  he  should  say. 


THE   COLPORTEUR.  15 


Hither  he  had  come  at  the  prompting  of  duty,  and 
now,  when  a  raging  lion  was  in  his  path,  he  shrunk 
not  back  in  terror,  but  resting  in  a  Divine  power, 
moved  steadily  onward. 

"Clear  out  from  here,  I  say!"  The  voice  of 
Dick  Jones  was  angry  still;  yet  something  of  its 
evil  purpose  was  gone. 

"  The  Lord  is  my  light  and  my  salvation :  whom 
shall  I  fear?  The  Lord  is  my  strength  and  my 
life:  of  whom  shall  I  be  afraid?" 

Neither  loud  nor  in  self-confidence  was  this 
spoken;  else  would  it  not  have  fallen  on  the  ears 
of  that  evil-minded  man  with  so  strange  a  power. 

"Why  have  you  come  here  to  trouble  me?  Go 
now — go,  before  I  do  you  harm,"  said  Dick  Jones, 
greatly  subdued  in  manner,  and  sinking  into  his 
chair  as  he  spoke. 

The  colporteur,  moved  less  by  thought  than  im 
pulse,  opened  the  Bible  which  had  been  closed  on 
the  entrance  of  Jones,  and  commenced  reading. 
All  was  still,  now,  save  the  low,  eloquent  voice  of 
the  stranger,  as  he  read  from  the  Holy  Book.  The 
wife  of  Jones,  who  had  stood  half  paralyzed  with 
terror  in  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  whither  an  im 
patient  arm  had  flung  her,  seeing  the  wonderful 
change  that  was  passing,  stole  quietly  to  her  hus 
band's  side,  and,  bending  her  head,  even  as  his  was 
bent,  listened,  with  an  almost  charmed  attention  to 
the  Word  of  Life,  as  read  by  the  man  of  God,  who 
had  penetrated  the  dense  moral  wilderness  in  which 
they  had  so  long  dwelt. 

"Let  us  pray." 

How  strangely  these  words  sounded !    They  seem- 


16  THE   COLPORTEUK. 


ed  spoken  as  from  the  heavens  above  them,  and  by  a 
voice  that  they  could  not  disregard. 

Brief,  yet  earnest,  and  in  fitting  language,  was 
the  prayer  then  tearfully  made,  and  responded  to 
with  tears.  When  the  "Amen"  was  said,  and  the 
pious  colporteur  arose  from  his  knees,  what  a 
change  had  taken  place!  The  raging  lion  had 
become  a  lamb.  The  strong,  wicked  contemner 
of  the  good,  was  gentle  and  teachable  as  a  little 
child. 

Once  more  the  colporteur  read  from  the  Holy 
Book,  while  the  man  and  his  wife  listened  with  bent 
heads,  and  earnest,  thoughtful  faces. 

"Shall  I  leave  you  this  Bible?"  said  he,  rising 
at  length,  and  making  a  motion  to  retire. 

"If  you  will  sell  it  to  us,"  said  Dick  Jones. 

"It  is  yours  on  any  terms  you  please.  The  price 
is  low.  I  have  other  good  books ;  but  this  is  the 
best  of  all,  for  it  is  God's  own  Book,  in  which  he 
speaks  to  his  erring,  unhappy  children,  saying  to 
them,  'Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  Head  this 
first,  my  friends ;  read  it  in  the  morning,  as  soon 
as  you  rise,  and  in  the  evening  before  you  retire. 
Read  it  together,  and,  if  you  feel  an  impulse  to 
pray,  kneel  down,  and  silently,  if  you  cannot  speak, 
aloud,  say  over  the  words  of  that  beautiful  prayei 
the  Saviour  taught  his  disciples, — the  prayer  your 
mothers  taught  you  when  you  were  innocent  chil 
dren — 'Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven.'  In  a  few 
weeks  I  will  pass  this  way  again.  Shall  I  call  to 
see  you?" 

"  Oh  yes.     Do  call,"  said  Jones,  his  voice  trem- 


THE   COLPORTEUR.  17 


bling ;  though  it  was  plain  he  struggled  hard  with 
the  flood  of  new  emotions  that  was  sweeping  over 
him. 

"May  God's  peace  rest  upon  this  house  !"  The 
stranger  stood  with  lifted  hands  and  head  bent 
reverently  for  a  moment.  Then,  turning  away,  he 
passed  from  the  door,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  was 
out  of  sight. 

A  month  later  the  colporteur  came  again  that 
way.  How  different  was  his  reception  at  the  house 
of  Dick  Jones !  The  moment  the  eyes  of  the  latter 
rested  upon  him,  it  seemed  as  if  a  sunbeam  fell  sud 
denly  on  his  rugged  features. 

"All  is  well,  I  see."  The  colporteur  spoke 
cheerfully,  and  with  a  radiant  smile.  "A  Bible  in 
the  house  is  a  blessing  to  its  inmates." 

"It  has  been  a  blessing  to  us,"  said  the  happy 
wife,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  "  Oh  sir,  we  can  never 
be  done  reading  the  Good  Book.  It  seems,  some 
times,  as  if  the  words  were  just  written  for  us.  And 
the  children  ask  me,  many  times  a  day,  if  I  won't 
read  to  them  about  Joseph  and  his  brethren,  the 
three  Hebrew  children,  or  Daniel  in  the  den  of 
lions.  Often,  when  they  have  been  so  ill-natured 
and  quarrelsome  that  I  could  do  nothing  with  them, 
have  I  stopped  my  work,  and  sat  down  among  them 
with  the  Bible,  and  began  to  read  one  of  its  beauti 
ful  stories.  Oh,  it  acted  like  a  charm !  All  anger 
would  die  instantly ;  and  when  I  closed  the  book, 
and  they  went  to  their  play  again,  I  would  not  hea£ 
an  ugly  word  among  them,  may  be,  for  hours.  And 
Richard,  too—"  she  glanced  toward  her  husband^ 
who  smiled,  and  she  went  on.  "And  Richard,  too 


2* 


18  WORSE  ENEMIES 

— I  haven't  heard  him  swear  an  oath  since  you 
were  here;  and  he  isn't  angry  with  things  that 
can't  be  helped  near  as  often  as  he  used  to  be.  Oh 
yes,  indeed,  sir ;  it  is  true.  A  Bible  in  the  house 
is  a  blessing  to  its  inmates." 

"If  that  were  the  only  fruit  of  my  labour,"  said 
the  colporteur,  as  he  walked  slowly  and  thought 
fully  away  from  the  house  of  Dick  Jones  an  hour 
later,  "  it  would  be  worth  all  the  toil  and  sacrifice  I 
have  given  to  the  work.  But  this  is  not  the  only 
good  ground  into  which  the  seed  I  am  scattering 
broadcast,  as  it  were,  has  fallen.  God's  rain,  and 
dew,  and  sunshine,  are  upon  it,  and  it  must  spring 
up,  and  grow,  and  ripen  to  the  harvest.  Let  me 
not  grow  faint  or  weary." 

And  with  a  stronger  heart  and  a  more  earnest 
purpose  he  went  on  his  way. 


WORSE  ENEMIES  THAN  LIONS  AND 
TIGERS. 

"Bad  thoughts  are  worse  enemies  than  lions  and  tigers." 

WOKSE  enemies  ?  Yes,  worse,  a  thousand  fold ! 
You  may  keep  away  from  the  path  of  a  lion — you 
Jnay  avoid  the  spring  of  a  tiger ;  but,  if  you  cherish 
Jbad  thoughts,  a  brood  of  stinging  serpents  is  warmed 
to  life  in  your  bosom. 

You  hate  that  Erskine?    Well,  who  is  most 


THAN  LIONS  AND  TIGERS.  19 

injured  by  your  hate  ?  You'll  make  him  feel  it ! 
He  can  never  know  a  tithe  of  the  evil  consequences 
you  will  experience  from  that  bad  passion,  my  friend. 
Have  you  ever  heard  the  old  Spanish  proverb, 
"  Curses,  like  chickens,  come  home  to  roost  ?"  If 
so,  it  were  well  for  you  to  ponder  its  meaning. 

Perkins  is  an  unhappy  man.  Why  ?  Is  he  in 
extreme  poverty  ?  No ;  his  basket  and  store  have 
been  largely  increased,  year  by  year.  Is  he  in 
affliction  ?  NQ  ;  the  finger  of  death  h-\p  not  yet 
rested  on  any  of  his  household  treasure*.  Why, 
then,  is  he  unhappy  ?  Because  enemies  to  his  peace 
are  kept  alive  in  his  bosom — enemies  that  -destroy 
more  than  lions  and  tigers.  Bad  thoughts,  you 
mean.  Yes ;  evil  thoughts  against  his  neighbours. 
Poor  man !  he  is  in  the  strange  delusion  that  all 
generous  thoughts  and  kind  deeds  toward  others 
will  be  so  much  abstracted  from  his  own  enjoyment. 
He  does  not  comprehend  the  meaning  involved  in 
the  act  of  lighting  a  neighbour's  candle.  Light  and 
•warmth  are  not  diminished,  but  more  widely  diffused. 
Perkins  would  laugh,  sneeringly,  at  the  man  who 
spent  half  an  hour  in  planting  a  tree,  from  which  he 
had  no  hope  of  gathering  fruit.  Yet,  while  the 
other  felt  a  glow  of  pleasure  in  the  act,  he  would  be 
unhappy  because  a  neighbour's  tree  bore  better  fruit 
than  his  own. 

Such  a  man  was  Perkins.  He  rarely  smiled, 
except  at  some  practical  joke  played  off  to  the 
annoyance  of  somebody  he  did  not  fancy.  Any 
thing  like  this,  he  enjoyed  amazingly.  At  home, 
he  was  usually  a  silent,  moody  sort  of  man,  greatly 
annoyed  by  trifles,  and  more  disposed  to  interfere 


20  WORSE  ENEMIES 

with  his  children's  sports,  than  to  encourage  play 
fulness  and  hilarity.  Their  noise  and  restlessness 
disturbed  him.  He  loved  his  wife  ahout  as  well  as 
a  man  like  him  is  capable  of  loving  any  thing  out  of 
himself;  but  he  never  studied  how  to  give  her  plea 
sure,  and  was  easily  fretted,  if,  through  her  neglect 
or  forgetfulness,  his  comfort  were  interfered  with  in 
the  slightest  degree. 

Mr.  Perkins  had  a  neighbour  named  Ehrman, 
who  was,  from  some  cause,  particularly  offensive  to 
him ;  and  yet  Ehrman  was  an  unobtrusive  man,  and 
more  inclined  to  think  well  than  ill  of  others.  Per 
haps  this  was  the  very  reason  why  Perkins  did  not 
like  him — for  good  and  evil  are  in  natural  antago 
nism.  It  so  happened  that  the  pleasant  grounds  of 
Perkins  and  Ehrman  lay  side  by  side.  This  gave 
the  former  occasion  for  much  captious  and  ill- 
natured  observation  of  his  neighbour,  whose  doings 
were  the  subject  of  thought  and  comment  far  beyond 
any  thing  that  he  imagined. 

One  day,  in  passing  homeward,  Perkins  called  at 
a  neighbour's,  and  said  to  him,  "  I  believe  I'll  take 
that  yellow  rose  you  told  me  you  wished  to  sell. 
I've  been  thinking  since  I  saw  you  yesterday,  that 
it  will  just  match  the  one  I  have  in  the  oval  grass- 
plat  by  the  front  door,  and  produce  a  very  fine 
effect.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  Two  dollars  is  the 
price  you  asked." 

"  It's  too  late,  now,  Mr.  Perkins,"  returned  the 
neighbour.  "  I  sold  it  to  Mr.  Ehrman,  this  morn 
ing." 

*     "You  did!"  The  countenance  of  Perkins  changed 
instantly. 


THAN   LIONS  AND  TIGERS.  21 


"  Yes ;  I  understood  you  to  decline  taking  it." 

"  You  didn't  understand  any  such  thing  !"  Mr. 
Perkins  was  already  partially  blind  with  passion. 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  neighbour,  with 
very  natural  indignation.  "I  did  so  understand 
you.  And  when  Mr.  Ehrman  called  this  morning, 
and  said  he  would  like  to  have  it  for  the  rosery  he 
was  making  in  front  of  his  house,  I  sold  it  to  him 
without  a  thought  of  your  desiring  to  possess  it." 

"  He's  making  a  rosery,  is  he  ?  Humph  !  that's 
because  I  talked  of  it." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  that,  Mr.  Perkins. 
Though  it's  my  opinion  that  Mr.  Ehrman  never 
heard  of  your  intention." 

"  Well,  I  know  that  he  has  heard  of  it.  He 
couldn't  have  helped  knowing  my  purpose,  because 
I  spoke  of  it  to  half  a  dozen  people.  And  he  knew 
I  wanted  this  very  rose.  But  he'll  be  sorry  for 
crossing  my  path.  Now  mark  my  word  for  it !" 

In  this  temper,  Mr.  Perkins  turned  his  steps 
homeward,  his  mind  so  full  of  bad  thoughts,  that 
there  was  not  room  for  a  single  good  one  to  find 
entrance. 

"  0  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Perkins,  as  she  met  him 
at  the  door.  There  was  a  smile  of  welcome  on  her 
face,  and  gladness  in  her  tones,  for  she  had  some 
thing  very  pleasant  to  tell  her  husband.  But  the 
moment  her  eyes  rested  on  his  face,  her  countenance 
fell,  and  she  re_mained  silent. 

Not  a  word  of  greeting  passed  the  lips  of  Mr. 
Perkins,  nor  did  a  single  harsh  line  of  his  rigid  fea 
tures  relax.  Jostling  his  wife  almost  rudely,  as  he 
passed  by  her,  he  went  through  the  house  into  the 


22  WORSE  ENEMIES 


garden  beyond,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  had 
some  desperate  purpose  to  accomplish.  Taking  up 
a  spade,  he  returned  through  the  house  to  the  orna 
mental  grass-plat  in  front,  where  stood  a  large  yel 
low  rose-bush,  the  buds  of  which  were  full  and 
almost  ready  to  break  into  blossom. 

What  is  he  going  to  do  ?  Not  destroy,  in  an 
outbreak  of  selfish  passion,  this  beautiful  flower, 
because  a  neighbour,  whom  he  does  not  like,  has 
become  possessed  of  one  equal  in  beauty  ?  No ; 
not  so  bad  as"  that.  He  knows  that  transplanting 
the  other  rose,  at  this  particular  season,  will  check 
its  growth.  If  he  can't  be  the  owner  thereof,  he  is 
resolved  that  his  rose  shall  be  far  more  luxuriant, 
and  so  means  to  give  it  an  extra  share  of  culture. 
His  purpose  now,  is  simply  to  loosen  the  earth  about 
the  roots,  so  that  sun,  air,  and  dew  may  penetrate 
more  freely.  This  he  designs  doing  daily,  and,  by 
all  human  means,  to  incite  it  to  a  more  vigorous 
growth. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  papa?  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ?"  asks  a  sunny-haired  child,  com 
ing  close  after  her  father,  who  has  failed  to  give  her 
the  usual  kiss  on  returning  home.  She  is  following 
him  as  much  for  the  desired  kiss,  as  from  a  feeling 
of  curiosity  in  his  movements.  A  dear,  good  child 
she  is,  and  loves  her  father  with  all  the  tenderness 
of  a  young  and  guileless  heart. 

" Papa!  papa !" — her  hand  is  tugging  at  his  gar 
ment — "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Go  back  into  the  house  !" 

How  pale  and  frightened  the  dear  child  looks ! 
No  wonder.  Was  it  her  father's  voice — so  full  of 


THAN   LIONS  AND  TIGERS.  23 


cruel  anger  ?  Was  that  dark,  frowning  brow,  were 
those  evil  eyes,  the  brow  and  eyes  of  the  parent  to 
ward  whom  her  pure  heart  was  gushing  over  with 
love  ?  Alas  !  bad  thoughts  are  worse  than  lions  and 
tigers.  How  ruthlessly  they  destroy  the  gentle,  loving, 
innocent  things  born  of  good  affections  in  the  heart. 
Filial  tenderness — where  is  it  now  ?  The  lions  and 
tigers  have  destroyed,  or  driven  it  far  away  from 
the  bosom  of  Mr.  Perkins. 

Frightened,  disappointed,  unhappy  child  !  Slowly 
she  goes  back  into  the  house,  tears  falling  like  rain 
over  her  cheeks  and  on  her  bosom,  and  her  little 
heart  almost  bursting  with  sobs. 

And  now,  under  the  excitement  of  his  bad  feel 
ings,  Mr.  Perkins  commences  digging  about  his 
valued  bush.  There !  His  unsteady  hands  have 
made  an  unskilful  stroke,  and  the  largest  and  most 
beautifully  headed  stem  has  been  parted  from  the 
root,  and  lies  a  ruin,  with  all  its  wealth  of  bursting 
buds,  at  his  feet !  A  moment  Mr.  Perkins  stands, 
as  if  paralyzed ;  then,  with  a  bitter  imprecation,  he 
flings  the  spade  madly  from  his  hands.  A  yell  of 
pain  follows  instantly.  What  now?  Unhappy 
man  !  The  enemies  he  has  taken  to  his  bosom  have 
wrought,  through  him,  a  further  injury.  Poor  old 
Neptune  !  It  is  scarcely  a  week  since,  faithful  ani 
mal  !  you  plunged  into  the  river  and  bore  safely  to 
land  the  dear  child  whom  her  father  has  just  driven 
away  with  frowns  and  angry  words ;  and  now  your 
master,  who  caressed  you  then  with  grateful  tender 
ness,  has  broken  your  leg  with  a  blow  ! 

"  0  Edward,  Edward  I  That  was  a  cruel  act !" 
said  his  wife,  in  a  rebuking  voice.  The  unexpected 


24  WORSE  ENEMIES 

repulse  and  harsh  temper  of  her  husband  had  soured 
her  feelings,  and  now  she  was  moved  by  a  hard  and 
accusing  spirit.  "  Thus  have  you  rewarded  the 
noble  saviour  of  our  child  !" 

"  Peace,  woman  !"  was  his  angry  retort ;  and  as 
he  spoke,  he  passed  hurriedly  into  the  house.  A 
moment  after  he  returned  with  a  loaded  gun  in  his 
hand.  There  was  a  loud  rifle  crack.  All  is  still ! 
With  that  sharp  report  the  poor  dog's  yells  of 
anguish  died  on  the  air,  for  a  leaden  messenger  of 
death  had  entered  his  generous  heart.  Not  in  anger 
was  the  deadly  weapon  aimed ;  but  in  sorrow  and 
stern  mercy.  Ah,  what  an  anguish  of  regret  was 
at  the  heart  of  Mr.  Perkins  !  How  bitter  was  the 
sorrow  that  overwhelmed  him  like  a  flood !  The 
enemies  he  had  admitted  into  his  bosom  have  already 
done  a  sad  work  of  destruction. 

What  gloomy  shadows  rested  on  the  household  of 
Mr.  Perkins  at  the  going  down  of  that  evening's 
sun!  Usually,  as  the  curtains  of  darkness  were 
drawn  slowly  over  the  jewelled  sky,  heart-rays, 
blending  with  the  clear  lamplight,  made  all  within 
his  dwelling  brighter  even  than  when  daylight  was 
abroad.  But  there  were  no  heart-rays  to  go  forth 
on  that  evening;  and  the  lamp  burned  low  and 
feeble,  unable  to  disperse  the  enshrouding  darkness 
that  fell  on  every  spirit  like  a  pall. 

For  more  than  half  the  night,  Mr.  Perkins  lay 
awake,  striving  in  vain  to  steep  his  senses  in  for 
getfulness — striving  in  vain  to  banish  thoughts  that 
deeply  disturbed  him  with  their  unwelcome  presence. 
Much  as  he  suffered  from  self-condemnation — much 
as  he  blamed  himself  for  the  unkind  spirit  he  had 


THAN  LIONS  AND  TIGERS.  25 


displayed  toward  his  family — he  did  not  in  the  least 
soften  toward  Mr.  Ehrman,  whom  he  regarded  as 
the  real  cause  of  all  the  unhappy  events  of  the  pre 
vious  day.  It  was  perfectly  plain  to  him  that  this 
"miserable  fellow,"  as  he  mentally  called  Ehrman, 
had  heard  of  his  desire  to  possess  the  yellow  rose, 
and  meanly  anticipated  him  in  its  possession. 

"  I'll  never  forgive  him  for  that  act,  as  long  as  I 
live,"  he  mentally  exclaimed  more  than  twenty 
times,  as  he  moved,  restlessly,  on  his  pillow  through 
the  night.  "He's  the  cause  of  all  that  has  hap 
pened,  and  I'll  make  him  repent  of  it,  ere  he's  three 
months  older." 

Perkins  had  suffered  the  sun  to  go  down  upon  his 
wrath,  and  when  it  arose  in  the  clear  blue  heavens, 
the  fires  burned  as  fiercely  as  ever.  Still  were  the 
enemies  cherished,  that  had  already  destroyed  so 
much — those  bad  thoughts  which,  quickly  exciting 
kindred  purposes,  produce  evil  actions. 

How  silent  and  gloomy — we  might  almost  say, 
sullen — passed  the  morning  meal,  usually  a  season, 
of  pleasant  intercourse.  Sleep,  alas  !  had  not  calmed 
the  elements  which  bad  thoughts  had  lashed  into 
unwonted  disturbance.  The  child  was  still  grieving 
for  the  death  of  the  noble  animal  she  had  loved 
since  light  first  dawned  on  her  opening  mind ;  the 
mother  grieved  also  for  this,  while  pain  from  other 
causes  oppressed  and  saddened  her  feelings.  The 
father  was  angry  with  himself  for  his  half-insane  con 
duct,  but  more  angry  with  his  neighbour  Ehrman  a3 
the  cause.  And  all  this  unhappiness  arose  in  con 
sequence  of  letting  a  few  bad  thoughts  come  into 
the  mind !  In  truth,  the  moralist  was  right  when 
3 


26  WORSE  ENEMIES 


he  said,  "  Bad  thoughts  are  worse  enemies  than  lions 
and  tigers." 

Forth  from  his  shadowed  dwelling  went  Mr.  Per 
kins.  No  loving  kiss  or  tender  words  were  left 
behind  him,  as  a  blessing  through  the  day  for  the 
loved  and  the  loving. 

Who  is  that  entering  through  the  gate  ?  Not  Mr. 
Ehrman,  surely !  Yes ;  it  is  the  neighbour  against 
whom  Mr.  Perkins  has  permitted  himself  to  cherish 
so  many  bad  thoughts  and  angry  feelings.  There 
is  a  manly  unconsciousness  of  wrong  in  his  face,  and 
a  pleasant  smile,  that  tells  of  kind  and  neighbourly 
feelings,  about  his  lips.  It  is  in  the  heart  of  Mr. 
Perkins  to  insult  him  with  words  of  bitter  denuncia 
tion.  But  a  certain  self-respect  and  regard  for 
appearances  restrain  him.  The  most  that  he  accords 
is  a  cold  and  repulsive  civility,  which  the  other  seems 
not  to  notice. 

"I  did  not  know,"  Mr.  Ehrman  says,  "until  I 
went  over  to  Mr.  Grant's  last  evening,  that  you  had 
expressed  a  desire  to  have  the  yellow  rose  he  offers 
for  sale.  When  Mr.  Grant  told  me  of  this,  I  at 
once  declined  taking  it,  and  have  called  in  this 
morning  to  say  so.  It  will  match  the  one  you  have 
in  the  other  end  of  that  oval  grass-plat,  beautifully ; 
and  make  a  finer  effect  than  any  thing  I  could  pro 
duce  with  it.  Don't  think  it  will  be  any  disappoint 
ment  to  me,  Mr.  Perkins ;  my  heart  is  no  way  set 
upon  it.  Indeed,  at  the  very  time  I  was  buying  it 
from  Grant,  I  half  regretted  that  you  were  not  the 
purchaser  instead  of  myself;  for  I  saw,  at  a  glance, 
that  it  was  just  a  match  for  yours,  and  was  the  only 
thing  your  beautiful  oval  wanted  to  balance  the 


A  LESSON  FROM  THE  BEES.  27 


arrangement  of  flowers,  and  make  the  effect  perfect. 
So,  consider  the  rose  as  your  own.  As  I  come 
home  this  evening,  I  will  stop  to  admire  it  in  its 
right  position.  Good  morning  !" 

And  ere  Mr.  Perkins  can  frame  an  answer,  or 
give  it  utterance,  the  kind,  generous,  unselfish 
neighbour,  against  whom  he  has  so  causelessly 
indulged  evil  thoughts  and  envious  feelings,  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  voice. 

Reader,  we  have  nothing  further  to  relate.  "We 
close  abruptly,  and  leave  our  story  and  its  lesson 
with  you.  "  Bad  thoughts  are  worse  enemies  than 
lions  and  tigers."  We  pray  you  beware  of  them. 


A  LESSON  FROM  THE  BEES.   £ 

A  MURMUR  of  impatience  came  from  the  lips  of 
young  Wentworth,  as,  laying  aside  his  palette  and 
brushes,  he  took  up  his  hat,  and,  with  a  worried 
manner,  left  the  studio,  where,  with  two  or  three 
young  men,  he  was  taking  lessons  and  seeking  to 
acquire  skill  in  the  art  of  painting.  He  was  at 
work  on  the  head  of  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas, 
and  was,  with  the  warm  euthusiasm  of  a  young 
artist,  in  love  with  the  beautiful,  seeking  to  trans 
fer  to  his  canvas  the  heavenly  tenderness  of  her 
eyes,  when  a  coarse  jest,  from  the  lips  of  a  fellow- 
student,  jarred  harshly  on  his  ears.  It  was  this 
that  had  so  disturbed  him.  Out  into  the  open  air 


28        A  LESSON  FROM  THE  BEES. 

the  young  man  passed,  but  the  bustle  and  confusion 
of  the  street  did  not  in  the  least  calm  his  excited 
state  of  feeling. 

"A  coarse,  vulgar  fellow!"  he  said,  angrily,  giv 
ing  voice  to  his  indignation  against  the  student.  "  If 
he  is  to  remain  in  the  studio,  I  must  leave  it.  I 
can't  breathe  the  same  atmosphere  with  one  like 
him." 

And  he  walked  on,  aimless,  but  with  rapid  steps. 
Soon  he  was  opposite  the  window  of  a  printseller. 
A  gem  of  art  caught  his  eye. 

"Exquisite!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  paused  and 
stood  before  the  picture.  "Exquisite !  What  group 
ing!  What  an  atmosphere !  What  perspective !" 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  a  rough  fellow  at  his  side, 
whose  attention  had  been  arrested  by  a  comic  print. 
"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  And  clasping  his  hands  against 
his  sides,  he  made  the  air  ring  with  a  coarse  but 
merry  peal.  He  understood  his  artist  fully,  and 
enjoyed  this  creation  of  his  pencil. 

"Brute!"  came  almost  audibly  from  the  lips  of 
Wentworth,  as  all  the  beautiful  images  just  conjured 
up  faded  from  his  mind.  And  off  he  started  from 
the  print-window  in  a  fever  of  indignation  against 
the  vulgar  fellow  who  had  no  more  manners  than  to 
guffaw  in  the  street  at  sight  of  low  life  in  a  picture. 
On  he  moved  for  the  distance  of  one  or  two  blocks, 
when  he  paused  before  another  window  full  of  en 
gravings  and  paintings.  A  gem  of  a  landscape, 
cabinet  size,  had  just  been  placed  in  the  window, 
and  our  young  friend  was  soon  enjoying  its  fine 
points. 

"Who  can  be  the  artist?"  he  had  just  said  to 


A  LESSON   FROM   THE   BEES.  29 


himself,  and  was  bending  closer  to  examine  the  deli 
cate  treatment  of  a  bit  of  water,  over  which  a  tree 
projected,  when  a  puff  of  tobacco  smoke  stole  past 
his  cheek,  and  found  its  way  to  his  nostrils.  Now, 
Wentworth  was  fond  of  a  good  cigar,  and  the  fra 
grance  that  came  to  his  sense  on  this  particular 
occasion  was  delicate  enough  of  its  kind.  In  itself, 
it  would  have  been  agreeable  rather  than  offensive ; 
but  the  vulgarity  of  street-smoking  he  detested,  and 
the  fact  of  this  vulgarity  came  now  to  throw  his 
mind  again  from  its  even  balance. 

"Whew!"  he  ejaculated,  backing  away  from  the 
window,  and  leaving  his  place  to  one  less  sensitive, 
or  capable  of  a  deeper  abstraction  of  thought  when 
any  thing  of  true  interest  was  presented. 

"I  will  ride  out  into  the  country,"  said  he. 
"  There,  with  nature  around  me,  I  can  find  enjoy 
ment."  So  he  entered  an  omnibus,  the  route  of 
which  extended  beyond  the  city  bounds.  Alas! 
here  he  also  found  something  to  disturb  him. 
There  was  a  woman  with  a  lapdog  in  her  arms, 
and  another  with  a  poor,  sick  child,  that  cried  in 
cessantly.  A  man,  partially  intoxicated,  entered, 
after  he  had  ridden  a  block  or  two,  and  crowded 
down  by  his  side.  Beyond  this,  the  sensitive  Went 
worth  could  endure  nothing.  So  he  pulled  the 
checkstring,  paid  his  fare,  and  resumed  his  place 
on  the  pavement,  muttering  to  himself  as  he  did  so — 

"I'd  a  thousand  times  rather  walk  than  ride  in 
such  company." 

Two  miles  from  the  city  resided  a  gentleman  of 
taste  and  education,  who  had  manifested  no  little 
interest  in  our  excitable  young  friend.  To  visit 
3*  ' 


30        A  LESSON  FROM  THE  BEES. 


him  was  the  purpose  of  Wentworth  when  he  entered 
the  stage,  which  would  have  taken  him  within  half 
a  mile  of  his  pleasant  dwelling.  He  purposed  to 
walk  the  whole  distance  rather  than  ride  with  such 
disagreeable  companions.  The  day  was  rather  warm. 
Our  young  artist  found  it  pleasant  enough  while  the 
pavement  lay  in  tfye  shadow  of  contiguous  houses. 
But,  fairly  beyond  these,  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun 
fell  upon  his  head,  and  the  clouds  of  dust  from  pass 
ing  vehicles  almost  suffocated  him.  Just  a  little  in 
advance  of  him,  for  a  greater  part  of  the  distance, 
kept  the  omnibus,  from  which  the  women  with  the 
lapdog  and  crying  child  got  out  only  a  square 
beyond  the  point  where  he  left  the  coach.  The 
drunken  man  also  soon  left  the  vehicle.  Tired  and 
overheated,  Wentworth  now  hurried  forward,  mak 
ing  signs  to  the  driver:  but,  as  the  driver  did  not 
look  around,  his  signs  were  all  made  in  vain ;  and 
he  was  the  more  fretted  at  this  from  the  fact  that 
a  passenger,  who  was  riding  in  the  omnibus,  had 
his  face  turned  toward  him  all  the  time,  and  was, 
so  our  pedestrian  imagined,  enjoying  his  disap 
pointment. 

Hot,  dusty,  and  weary  was  our  young  artist, 
when,  after  walking  the  whole  distance,  he  arrived 
at  the  pleasant  residence  of  the  gentleman  we  have 
mentioned. 

"Ah,  my  young  friend !  How  are  you  to-day  ? 
A  visit,  I  need  not  tell  you,  is  always  agreeable. 
But  you  look  heated  and  tired.  You  have  walked 
too  fast." 

"Too  far,  rather,"  said  Wentworth.  "I  have 
come  all  the  way  on  foot." 


A  LESSON  FROM  THE  BEES.        31 


"How  so?     Did  you  prefer  walking?" 

"Yes ;  to  riding  in  the  stage  with  a  crying  child, 
a  lapdog,  and  a  drunken  man." 

"The  drunken  man  was  bad  company,  certainly. 
But  the  crying  child  and  the  lapdog  were  trifling 
matters." 

"Not  to  me,"  answered  Wentworth.  "I  despise 
a  woman  who  nurses  a  lap-dog.  The  very  sight 
frets  me  beyond  endurance." 

"  Still,  my  young  friend,  if  women  will  nurse 
lapdogs,  you  can't  help  it;  and  so,  your  wisest 
course  would  be  to  let  the  fact  pass  unobserved: 
or,  at  least  uncared  for.  To  punish  yourself,  as 
you  have  done  to-day,  because  other  people  don't 
conform  in  all  things  just  to  your  ideas  of  propriety 
is,  pardon  me,  hardly  the  act  of  a  wise  man." 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  am  too  finely  strung,  I  sup 
pose — too  alive  to  the  harmonies  of  nature,  and  too 
quick  to  feel  the  jar  of  discord.  Do  you  know  to 
what  you  are  indebted  for  this  visit  to-day?" 

And  Wentworth  related,  with  a  colouring  of  his 
own,  the  incidents  just  sketched  for  the  reader; 
taking,  as  he  did  so,  something  of  merit  to  himself 
for  his  course  of  action. 

"  Upon  what  were  you  at  work  ?"  asked  his  friend, 
when  the  young  man  finished  speaking. 

"On  the  beautiful  Madonna,  about  which  I  told 
you  at  my  last  visit." 

"Is  it  nearly  completed?" 

"  A  few  more  touches,  and  I  would  have  achieved 
a  triumph  above  any  thing  yet  accomplished  by  my 
pencil.  It  was  in  the  eyes  that  I  failed  to  succeed. 
They  are  full  of  a  divine  tenderness,  that  only  a 


A  LESSON   FROM   THE   BEES. 


magic  touch  can  give.  Raphael  was  inspired  when 
he  caught  that  look  from  heaven.  I  had  risen,  by 
intense  abstraction  of  mind,  into  a  perception  of  the 
true  ideal  I  sought  to  gain,  and  the  power  to  fix  it 
all  on  canvas  was  flowing  down  into  my  hand,  when 
the  jar  of  discord  produced  by  that  vulgar  fellow 
scattered  every  thing  into  confusion  and  darkness." 

"And  so  the  Madonna  remains  unfinished?" 

"Yes,  and  I  am  driven  from  work.  Here  is  an 
other  day  added  to  my  list  of  almost  useless  days." 

The  friend  mused  for  a  little  while,  and  then  said, 
somewhat  sententiously — 

"You  must  take  a  lesson  from  the  bees,  Henry." 

"  I  will  hear  a  lesson  from  your  lips ,  but,  as  for 
the  bees" — 

And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  that 
said — "I  can  learn  but  little  from  them." 

"Let  us  walk  into  the  garden,"  said  the  friend, 
rising. 

And  they  went  out  among  the  leafy  shrubs  and 
blossoming  plants,  where  butterflies  folded  their 
lazy  wings,  and  the  busy  bees  made  all  the  air  musi 
cal  with  their  tiny  hum. 

"Now  for  the  lesson,"  said  the  young  artist, 
smiling.  "A  lesson  from  the  bees.  Here  is  a 
sprightly  little  fellow,  just  diving  into  the  red  cup 
of  a  honeysuckle.  What  lesson  does  he  teach?" 

"  One  that  all  of  us  may  lay  to  heart.  There  is 
honey  in  the  cup,  and  it  is  his  business  to  gather 
honey.  Just  beside  the  crimson  blossom,  and  even 
touching  it,  hangs  an  ugly  worm,  spinning  out  the 
thread  of  his  winding-sheet;  but  the  bee  did  not 
pass  the  flower,  because  of  its  offensive  presence, 


A  LESSON  FROM   THE   BEES.  33 

nor  will  he  hasten  from  it  until  he  has  extracted 
the  honey-dew.  Now  his  work  is  accomplished; 
and  now  he  has  passed  to  that  clover  blossom,  which 
his  weight  hends  over  against  the  leaves  of  a  deadly 
night-shade.  But  the  poisoned  weed  is  no  annoy 
ance  to  him.  So  intently  pursues  he  his  search  for 
honey,  that  he  is  unconscious  of  its  presence.  Now 
he  buries  himself  in  blushing  rose-leaves,  'heeding 
not  and  caring  not,'  though  a  hundred  sharp  thorns 
bristle  on  the  stem  that  supports  the  lovely  flower. 
And  now,  full  laden  with  the  sweet  treasure  he 
sought,  he  is  off  on  swift  wing  for  the  hive.  Shall 
we  observe  the  motions  of  another  bee  ?  Or,  is  the 
lesson  clear?" 

The  countenance  of  Wentworth  looked  thought 
ful,  even  serious.  A  little  while  he  stood  musing, 
as  though  his  perceptions  were  not  lucid.  Then 
turning  to  his  wise  and  gently  reproving  friend,  he 
grasped  his  hand,  saying,  with  a  manner  greatly 
subdued : — 

"  The  lesson  is  clear.  I  will  go  back  and  finish 
my  Madonna,  though  a  dozen  vulgar  fellows  haunt 
the  studio.  I  will  have  no  eyes  nor  ears  for  them. 
My  own  high  purpose  to  excel,  shall  make  me  blind 
and  deaf  to  any  thing  that  would  hinder  my  onward 
progress.  Thanks  for  your  lesson  of  the  bees.  I 
will  never  forget  it.  Like  them,  I  will  gather  the 
honey  of  life  from  every  rich  flower  in  my  way. 
Let  the  weeds  grow  nigh  if  they  will.  I  shall  not 
regard  their  presence." 


THE   BROKEN   HEART. 

RECOLLECTIONS   OF   AN   OLD   PHYSICIAN. 


ABOUT  the  time  that  Mr.  S ,  then  holding  a 

distinguished  position  in  the  fiscal  world,  completed 
his  splendid  mansion  at  Calverton,  near  Baltimore, 
which  now  forms  the  centre  to  the  two  wings  of  the 
County  Almshouse,  I  was  summoned  to  attend  a 
case  of  illness  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood. 
The  family,  which  was  highly  respectable  and 
wealthy,  I  knew  well  by  reputation,  but  had  never 
before  been  called  in  to  attend  any  of  its  members. 

Mr.  0 ,  its  head,  was  a  retired  merchant,  who, 

during  the  war  of  1812,  had  amassed  a  considerable 
fortune,  and  then  retired  from  business.  He  now 
held  the  position  of  president  of  an  insurance  com 
pany,  the  duties  of  which  office  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  come  to  town  every  day. 

Mr.  0 had  four  children,  two  sons  and  two 

daughters.  One  son  was  in  business  in  this  city, 
and  the  other  was  partner  in  a  house  in  Cuba.  The 
daughters  were  both  married ;  but  one  of  them  had 
formed  an  unhappy  union,  and  now  resided  at  home, 
having  parted  with  her  husband.  It  was  to  see  her 
that  I  was  called  in. 

In  order  to  give  the  reader  a  clear  apprehension 
of  all  that  I  am  about  to  relate,  it  will  be  necessary 
34 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  35 


for  me  to  detail  with  some  minuteness  a  portion  of 
the  previous  history  of  the  family ;  or,  at  least,  so 
much  of  it  as  includes  the  daughter's  marriage — 
sacrifice,  I  should  rather  say. 

Mr.  0 was  a  proud,  strong-minded,  self-willed 

man,  with  manners  that  could  attract  when  he  wish 
ed  to  attract,  strongly,  or  repel  when  he  wished  to 
repel,  with  equal  force.  He  married  one  of  those 
gentle,  confiding,  sensitive  creatures,  who  will  cling 
to  a  man  if  his  love  answers  to  her  own  deep  pas 
sion  as  face  answers  to  face  in  water,  with  an  earn 
est  devotion ;  and  who,  if  her  husband  prove  cold, 
arbitrary,  selfish  and  self-willed,  will — cling  to  him 
still,  even  though  every  green  leaf  withers  for  want 
of  sustenance,  and  the  branches  that  bear  them  be 
come  sapless. 

Many  years  had  not  elapsed  before  Mrs.  0- 

discovered  that  her  life  was  to  be  one  of  continued 
endurance.  Her  wishes  were  rarely  consulted  in 
any  thing ;  and  if  they  were,  her  husband  was  sure 
to  see  things  in  a  light  different  from  the  one  in 
which  she  viewed  it.  He  never  yielded  any  thing  to 
her  views  or  preferences ;  in  fact,  he  never  dreamed 
that  he  was  called  upon  to  do  this.  At  his  store 
and  counting-room,  every  thing  moved  on  as  his  will 
directed,  and  his  ends  were  attained  without  ques 
tion  or  hinderance.  Home  was  but  another  quarter 
of  his  dominion,  and  there  he  exercised  his  power  as 
fully  as  in  his  business,  without  it  ever  seeming  to 
occur  to  him  that  another  mind  should  here  share 
in  the  determinations  of  his  own.*  v;y 

Had  Mrs.  0 been  a  woman  of  more  decided 

character — had  her  will  been  stronger — it  might 


THE   BROKEN  HEART. 


have  been  much  better  for  both  herself  and  family ; 
for  there  would  have  been  a  reaction  upon  her  hus 
band's  imperious  temper,  that  possibly  might  have 
led  him  to  reflect,  and  produced  a  change.  But,  as 
no  mirror  was  held  up  before  him,  he  could  not  see 
himself  as  he  really  was,  and  remained  unconscious 
of  his  moral  deformities.  In  his  family,  his  will 
was  law.  His  wife  always  submitted,  no  matter 
how  much  was  sacrificed  in  the  effort;  and  as  his 
children  grew  up,  they  too  soon  learned  their  lesson 
of  submission.  No  matter  what  was  to  be  done,  his 
inclinations,  feelings,  or  preferences  governed  the 
mode  and  the  time.  If  his  wife  expressed  a  wish 
for  any  thing,  his  assent  or  objection  was  decisive, 
and  its  ground  always  lay  in  his  own  views  or  feel 
ings.  The  process  of  setting  himself  aside,  and 
acting  from  a  desire  to  gratify  or  make  another 
happy,  was  one  of  which  he  had  no  conception. 

Life,  thus  passed,  could  have  but  few  charms  for 
a  woman  whose  feelings  were  as  delicately  strung 

as  those  of  Mrs.  0 ;  nor  could  life,  under  such 

a  pressure,  be  a  long  continued  one.  It  is  not, 
therefore,  a  matter  of  wonder  that  she  died  early. 
This  event  was  probably  hastened  by  the  circum 
stances  attending  the  marriage  of  her  youngest 
daughter,  Laura,  whose  whole  character  bore  a 
strong  resemblance  to  that  of  her  mother.  Flo 
rence,  the  oldest  of  her  two  daughters,  was  like  her 
father,  and  had,  from  a  child  up,  domineered  over 
her  sweet-tempered,  too-yielding  sister.  As  it  is 
to  the  unhappy  marriage  of  Laura  that  I  wish  par 
ticularly  to  refer,  I  will  introduce  at  once  the  cir 
cumstances  attending  it. 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  87 


Mr.  0 vras  an  Englishman.  He  came  to 

America  when  a  young  man,  without  property  or 
friends,  and  by  his  own  activity  and  energy  elevated 
himself  to  wealth  and  social  eminence.  In  his  own 
country,  he  had  been  taught  a  servile  deference  to 
rank.  When  he  came  to  this,  and  sought  for  em 
ployment,  he  went  with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  and 
cringed  meanly  to  the  man  of  whom  he  asked  a 
situation.  It  was  not  long  before  he  saw  that,  in 
the  United  States,  wealth  was  a  thing  to  be  obtain 
ed  by  every  one  who  had  shrewdness,  industry,  and 
energy ;  and  he  also  saw  that  the  aristocracy  of  the 
country  was  one  of  wealth — that  money  made  the 
lord.  ' 

Consequently,  as  from  a  combination  of  fortunate 
circumstances  he  began  to  amass  wealth,  he  began 
to  be  impressed  with  an  idea  of  his  own  importance, 
and  to  grow  insolent  and  overbearing  to  all  around 
him,  except  the  rich.  Time  went  on,  and  he  became 
an  aristocrat — a  money  aristocrat — and  society  ac 
corded  to  him  the  distinction.  A  poor  man,  in  his 
eyes,  was  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  was  about  all ; 
he  was  a  human  being,  but  of  an  inferior  grade. 
So  much  for  the  man. 

When  Laura,  his  youngest  daughter,  was  eighteen, 
her  hand  was  sought  in  marriage  by  the  profligate 
son  of  a  wealthy  mercantile  friend  named  Ruffin. 
The  pure-minded  girl  shrunk,  instinctively,  from 
the  young  man's  addresses.  She  knew  nothing  of 
his  character,  but  his  face  and  manners  had  in  them 
something  that  repulsed  her.  When  he  offered  her 
his  hand,  she  promptly,  and  without  consultation 


38  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 


with  any  one,  rejected  the  offer.  In  this  she  acted 
with  more  than  her  usual  decision. 

Surprised,  mortified,  and  indignant  at  this  un 
looked-for  result,  Charles  Ruffin,  in  a  spirit  of  re 
venge,  vowed  that  she  should  marry  him — that  he 
would  never  give  up  his  suit  until  he  had  gained  it. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  succeeding  that  upon 
which  he  had  received  a  rejection  of  his  suit,  young 
Ruffin  called  upon  a  friend  about  his  own  age,  with 
whom  he  was  on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy.  To 
him  he  related,  with  strong  marks  of  indignant  feel 
ing,  the  particulars  of  what  had  transpired ;  and 
concluded  by  saying  that  he  would  marry  her  in 
spite  of  all  opposition. 

"No  woman  shall  ever  have  the  pleasure  of  re 
jecting  my  suit  twice,"  replied  the  friend,  with  a 
slight  curl  of  the  lip. 

"No  woman  shall  ever  reject  my  suit,"  said  Ruf 
fin,  passionately. 

"But  you  have  already  been  rejected  " 

"That  is  to  be  seen." 

"  I  judge  from  your  own  statement." 

"  I'll  have  another  to  make  before  long,  and  then 
you  will  see  whether  I  have  been  rejected  or  not." 

The  young  man  laughed  aloud  as  he  shook  his 
head  and  said: — 

"  It  won't  do,  Charley.  You  have  had  the  mit 
ten  and  no  mistake.  I  did  not  believe  the  girl  had 
so  much  spirit  in  her." 

Ruffin  felt  too  deeply  chagrined  to  relish  this 
bantering  spirit  of  his  friend.  He  spoke  bitterly  in 
reply: — 

"I  am  not  going  to  give  up  this  matter,"  said  he 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  39 


— "-not  that  I  care  two  pins  for  the  huzzy,  but  I 
never  will  forgive  the  insulting  spirit  in  which  my 
honourable  proposal  was  met.  She  shall  yet  re 
pent  it." 

"  Surely  you  would  not  marry  a  woman  in  order 
to  be  revenged  on  her?"  said  the  friend. 

"  You  will  see.  Before  six  months  pass,  she  will 
be  uiy  wife." 

"And  then ?" 

"Yes,  and   then  !      Ah !"  and   the   wretch 

ground  his  teeth  with  a  kind  of  savage  delight — 
"And  then  Laura  0 will  repent " 

"You  could  not  be  guilty  of  conduct  so  cruel 
and  base,"  said  the  friend,  showing  his  honest  in 
dignation  both  in  word,  tone,  and  expression   of 
countenance. 

"  Did  I  hear  you  aright  ?"  asked  Ruffin,  speak 
ing  in  a  louder  and  more  excited  voice,  and  look 
ing  with  surprise  and  anger  into  his  companion's 
face. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "I  tried 
to  utter  my  words  distinctly." 

"  Did  you  say  base?" 

"I  used  that  word." 

"In  application  to  my  conduct?"  A  scowl  was 
on  the  brow  of  Ruffin.  His  friend  looked  steadily 
at  him,  and  replied : 

"  To  your  proposed  conduct,  which  I  pronounce 
unworthy  of  you  or  any  man  of  honour." 

The  only  answer  made  to  this  by  Ruffin,  was  to 
ctrike  his  friend  in  the  face.  Nothing  short  of  a 
hostile  meeting  could  result  from  this  quarrel.  Such 
a  meeting  did  take  place,  and  the  generous,  high- 


40  THE   BROKEN  HEART. 


minded  P was  shot  dead  on  the  spot.  The 

sensation  produced  in  the  community  by  this  event 
was  strong.  A  hundred  vague  rumours  as  to  the 
cause  circulated  in  all  directions,  but  only  a  very 
few  were  aware  of  the  real  circumstances.  Ruffin 
was  the  challenged  party,  and  this  created  some 
feeling  in  his  favour.  I  am  not  sure  that  Laura 

0 had  even  a  remote  idea  of  the  nature  of  the 

dispute  from  which  such  fatal  consequences  had 
arisen. 

No  change  whatever  took  place  in  the  social  posi 
tion  of  Charles  Ruffin.  He  was  received  as  freely 
in  all  circles  as  before.  Young  ladies  greeted  him 
with  smiles  and  pleasant  words,  and  even  permitted 
his  hand,  wet  with  the  blood  of  his  friend,  to  touch 
their  own.  I  went,  occasionally,  into  company  at 
this  period,  and  particularly  noticed  the  manner  in 
which  Ruffin  was  received  after  his  meeting  with 
his  friend,  as  compared  with  what  it  was  before. 
The  difference,  I  thought,  marked.  There  was 
much  more  attention  shown  to  him.  He  was  treat 
ed  with  that  kind  of  deference  usually  manifested 
toward  those  who  have  done  their  fellows  some 
eminent  service. 

All  this  grieved  and  disgusted  me.  I  could  not 
and  did  not  treat  him  as  I  had  previously  done. 
My  manner  was  cold  and  formal.  He  may  or  may 
not  have  observed  this.  I  thought  he  did;  but 
that  was  of  no  consequence. 

How  little  does  society  do,  by  common  consent, 
to  purify  its  moral  atmosphere !  A  man's  real  cha 
racter  is  rarely  set  off  against  his  wealth  or  family ; 
and  so  long  as  this  is  the  case,  virtue  has  no  com- 


THE   BROKEN  HEART.  41 


mon  protector.  If  a  man's  character  gave  him  en 
trance  into,  or  excluded  him  from  good  society, 
there  might  be  safety  for  the  young,  the  pure,  and 
the  innocent,  within  its  folds.  This  is  not  the  case; 
and  therefore  I  care  not  how  tender  may  have  been 
a  parent's  solicitude  for  his  child,  or  how  anxious 
he  may  have  been  for  her  good,  the  chances  for  her 
making  shipwreck  of  happiness  are  fearful  in  num 
ber. 

The  remedy  for  this  lies  in  the  adoption  of  a  new 
code  of  social  laws,  founded  in  a  just  regard  for  the 
well-being  of  the  whole ;  a  code  that  shall  make 
virtue,  and  only  virtue,  the  passport  to  good  society. 

In  what  Charles  Ruffin  had  said,  he  was  in  ear 
nest.  The  fatal  consequences  of  a  quarrel  with  his 
friend  for  having  censured  his  proposed  course  of 
action,  did  not  divert  him  from  his  purpose.  He 
was  an  evil-minded  young  man,  in  whom  pride  and 
self-love,  long  indulged,  had  almost  foreclosed  every 
virtuous  sentiment,  and  destroyed  every  virtuous 
emotion. 

He  did  not  meet  Laura  0 for  some  weeks 

after  her  rejection  of  his  suit.  During  that  time 
the  duel  had  taken  place.  Laura  had  no  suspicion 
of  the  real  cause ;  but  the  fact  increased  the  repug 
nance  already  felt  toward  Ruffin,  and  made  her  re 
gard  him  with  a  feeling  allied  to  horror.  When  he 
approached  her  one  evening  in  company,  at  the 
house  of  a  friend,  her  spirit  shrunk  from  him  with 
loathing  and  fear.  His  quick  eye  perceived  this, 
and  it  only  made  him  resolve  more  deeply  that  he 
would  gain  her  hand  in  marriage  at  any  cost.  Con 
cealing  every  thing  under  a  calm  exterior,  he  sat 


42  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 

+  •-••*•>•.      -'"'- 

down  by  her  side.  She  was  polite,  but  cold.  She 
answered  all  his  remarks  but  briefly,  and  strove  in 
every  way  to  make  the  conversation  so  burdensome 
to  him  that  he  would  abandon  it,  and  seek  some 
more  agreeable  companion. 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  her  reserve,  and 
adroitly  managed  the  conversation,  so  that  little 
above  an  assenting  monosyllable  was  required  of 
her,  and  that  only  an  occasional  one. 

"He  can  certainly  make  himself  agreeable 
enough,"  she  remarked  to  herself,  when,  after 
sitting  by  her  side  for  half  an  hour,  he  said,  as  he 
arose  and  left  her — 

"But  I  forget  that  I  must  not  monopolize  all 
your  time  in  this  pleasant  company." 

"  Pity  that  under  such  an  attractive  exterior  is 
concealed  so  bad  a  heart  as  he  must  have,  who 
could,  under  any  provocation,  shoot  his  friend." 

Laura  sighed,  and  shuddered  inwardly,  as  this 
thought  passed  through  her  mind. 

For  some  months  the  young  man  continued  his 
efforts  to  make  a  more  favourable  impression  upon 
Laura's  mind ;  but  he  saw  little  to  encourage  him. 
The  maiden  had  an  inward  repugnance,  that  nothing 
could  conquer.  Her  manner  was  always  reserved 
in  his  presence ;  he  never  could  draw  her  out  into 
a  conversation.  She  would  answer  the  remarks  he 
made  with  politeness,  but  never  sought  to  prolong 
the  interest  on  any  subject  he  introduced. 

At  length  Ruffin's  patience  gave  way,  and  he  re 
solved  on  a  more  decided  movement ;  and  that  was 
to  gain  over  the  father  to  his  side.  He  knew  some 
thing  of  his  strong  will  and  arbitrary  disposition; 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  43 

and  felt  sure,  that  if  he  became  decidedly  in  favour 
of  the  marriage,  Laura  would  be  forced  to  submit. 
In  order  to  accomplish  this,  it  was  necessary  to  make 
some  sacrifices.  The  father  of  Ruffin  was  a  mer 
chant,  and  an  old  and  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  0 . 

He  had  long  wished  his  son  to  settle  himself  steadily 
down  to  business,  but  had  not  been  able  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  do  so.  An  offer  of  a  large  share  in 
his  house  had  several  times  been  made,  but  Charles 
could  not  be  induced  to  accept  of  it.  He  had  stu 
died  law,  and  been  admitted  to  the  bar ;  this  en 
abled  him  to  assume  the  appearance  of  a  profes 
sional  man,  while  the  purse  of  his  father  rendered 
it  unnecessary  for  him  to  seek  for  or  even  care  for 
business. 

One  day  he  entered  the  old  gentleman's  count 
ing-room,  and,  after  lingering  about  for  a  while, 
drew  him  off  into  a  conversation,  and  dexterously 
managed  to  introduce  business  themes,  and  then 
evinced  more  than  usual  interest  in  the  subject. 
The  ice  of  reserve  that  had  for  some  time  existed 
between  the  father  and  son  was  thawed.  Mr.  Ruf 
fin  led  on  the  conversation  to  just  the  point  Charles 
wished  it  to  attain,  and  then  expressed  regret  that 
he  had  not,  at  the  start,  chosen  mercantile  instead 
of  legal  pursuits. 

"It  is  not  too  late  yet,  Charles,"  the  old  man 
said,  promptly. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  it,"  replied  the  son. 

"  Why  so  ?" 

"  To  pursue  any  calling  with  success,  requires  an 
education  in  it.  The  merchant  must  go  through  a 
preparatory  course,  as  well  as  the  lawyer;  and 


44  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 

neither  can  become  eminent  if  not,  originally,  well 
grounded  in  the  rudimental  science  and  practical 
principles  of  the  profession.  I  know  nothing  about 
the  general  laws  that  govern  trade,  and  nothing 
of  the  means  required  to  be  put  in  operation  in 
order  that  these  laws  may  work  out  a  profitable  re 
sult." 

"No  matter,  Charles,"  said  the  father,  warmly; 
"I  understand  them,  and  will  see  that  they  are 
properly  applied,  until  time  and  attention  give  you 
a  practical  knowledge  of  business." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  gain  it  ?" 

"  I  know  you  could  !"  was  emphatically  replied. 

"  I  feel  more  than  half  inclined  to  accept  of  the 
offer  you  have  so  often  made  me." 

"To  take  a  share  in  my  business?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Nothing  would  give  me  more  pleasure.  I  have 
built  up  a  house  that  is  now  honourably  known 
throughout  the  mercantile  world,  and  I  feel  a  natu 
ral  pride  in  having  its  high  reputation  sustained. 
You  bear  my  name,  and  can  alone  sustain  it  after 
my  death." 

"And  I  will  sustain  it !"  said  the  young  man,  af 
fecting  a  generous  enthusiasm. 

"You  take  a  weight  from  my  mind,  Charles,"  re 
turned  the  father,  with  undisguised  emotion.  "  I 
had  began  to  fear  that  my  long  cherished  hopes 
would  never  be  realized." 

In  a  week  from  this  time  it  was  announced,  in 
the  newspapers,  that  Mr.  Euffin  had  connected  his 
son  with  him  in  business,  and  that  the  firm  here 
after  would  be  Charles  Ruffin  &  Son. 


THE   BROKEN  HEART.  45 


No  one  congratulated  the  father  on  this  event 
more  warmly  than  did  his  old  friend  Mr.  0 . 

"  I  have  been  a  little  afraid  of  Charles,"  he  said, 
"  but  he  is  safe  now ;  the  mercantile  sphere  will  d} 
him  good.  It  will  sober  his  feelings  and  concen 
trate  his  thoughts  upon  an  end.  I  trust  that  he 
will  make  a  prudent  and  enterprising  merchant, 
and  give  strength  to  your  house." 

"  Time  will  show.  He  has  ability  enough,  and 
will  pursue  whatever  he  undertakes  with  ardour." 

"And  you  can  guide  him  to  a  safe  result." 

Charles  Ruffin  settled  himself  down  to  business, 
and  appeared  to  enter  into  all  its  details  with  inte 
rest  and  intelligence,  greatly  to  the  delight  of  his 
father.  As  much  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  do, 

he  threw  himself  in  the  way  of  Mr.  0 ,  in  business 

matters.  It  may  here  be  remarked,  that  the  father 
of  Laura  had  not  been  informed  of  her  rejection  of 
the  young  man's  suit.  The  maiden  confided  the 
secret  to  her  mother  alone,  and  the  mother  locked 
it  up  in  her  heart.  She  knew  her  husband's  cha 
racter  too  well,  and  had  suffered  too  much  from  his 
disregard  to  her  tenderest  and  best  feelings,  to 
trust  her  daughter's  happiness  in  his  hands. 

About  two  months  after  he  had  entered  into  busi 
ness  with  his  father,  young  Ruffin  renewed  his  at 
tentions  to  Laura,  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  attract 

the  notice  of  Mr.  0 ,  who  was  very  well  pleased 

to  observe  it.  He  also  hinted  to  his  father  that  he 
had  more  than  a  slight  preference  for  the  maiden, 
and  dexterously  managed  to  get  him  to  allude  to  the 

subject  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  0 .  From  that 

time  the  fate  of  the  sweet  girl  was  sealed.  Her 


46  THE    BROKEN   HEART. 


father  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  such  a  union, 
and  assured  Mr.  Ruffin  that  it  was  only  necessary 
for  Charles  to  offer  Laura  his  hand. 

Never,  from  the  day  of  her  marriage  until  this 

time,  had  Mrs.  0 opposed  her  husband.  Meek 

submission  and  patient  endurance  had  been  her  por 
tion.  But  the  mother  was  stronger  than  the  woman. 
The  love  she  bore  her  child  roused  her  into  resist 
ance. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  find  that  young  Charles  Ruffin 

is  attached  to  our  Laura,"  said  0 to  his  wife> 

one  evening,  after  they  were  alone. 

Mrs.  0 turned  pale  and  trembled.  She  felt 

that  a  day  of  deep  sorrow  had  come.  If  her  hus 
band  were  pleased  at  the  discovery,  he  would,  she 
knew,  demand  a  marriage,  should  the  young  man 
again  offer  himself,  against  all  that  she  or  her  poor 
child  could  urge.  The  shrinking  repugnance  felt 
by  Laura  would  be  as  dust  in  the  balance  against 
his  will.  But  she  could  not  tamely  submit  here. 
She  had  a  mother's  duty  to  perform. 

"  I  do  not  think  Laura  would  ever  be  happy  as 
his  wife  !"  she  ventured  to  say. 

"Why  not,  pray?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  Their  characters  are  altogether  different." 

"  So  are  yours  and  mine." 

Mrs.  0 did  not  reply  to  this :  thoughts  that 

she  dared  not  let  come  into  distinct  form  flitted 
through  her  mind. 

"  I  really  do  not  understand  what  you  mean," 
the  husband  resumed.  "A  better  match  than 
Charles  Ruffin  cannot  be  found  for  her.  His 
family  is  unexceptionable.  He  will  inherit  a  large 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  47 


property  from  his  father,  independent  of  what  he 
will  accumulate  in  his  own  right  as  a  partner  in  the 
house  of  Ruffin  &  Son." 

"  It  will  take  more  than  all  that  to  make  Laura 
happy." 

"  What  more,  pray  ?" 

"  A  man  whom  she  can  respect  and  love." 

"What  is  to  hinder  her  from  both  respecting 
and  loving  Charles  Ruffin?" 

"  She  can  never  love  a  man  who  has  stained  his 
hands  with  the  blood  of  his  friend.  But,  apart 
from  this,  she  has  ever  shrunk  with  an  inward,  un 
conquerable  dislike  from  this  young  man." 

"Indeed!" 

"It  is  true.  Months  ago  he  offered  her  his 
hand,  which  she  declined  without  consulting  any 
one." 

"  Laura  did  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  knew  it  ?" 

"After  his  suit  had  been  declined." 

"Why,  pray,  was  I  not  informed  of  this?"  Mr. 
0 spoke  in  an  imperious  tone. 

"  It  would  have  done  no  good.  Laura  is  of  age, 
and  must  decide  for  herself  in  a  matter  of  this  kind. 
She  has  all  to  gain  or  lose." 

"  But  why  was  it  concealed  from  me  ?  I  cannot 
understand  the  reason." 

Mrs.  0 felt  embarrassed.  To  speak  out 

boldly  and  avow  her  belief  that  he  would  have  acted 
arbitrarily  on  the  occasion,  she  could  not  do.  After 
a  few  moments'  silence,  she  replied — 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might  not  approve  of  what  she 


48  THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

had  done,  and  the  poor  child's  mind  was  already 
strongly  agitated." 

"  Humph  !  Approve  ?  No,  I  should  not  have 
approved.  If  a  drayman  had  offered  himself,  the 
same  kind  of  reasoning'  would  have  done  to  excuse 
her  acceptance  of  him,  and  marriage  without  my 
knowledge.  I  am  surprised  beyond  measure  at 
your  conduct.  I  ought  to  have  known  this  at  the 
time." 

"  It  would  have  done  no  good." 

"Don't  say  that  again!"  Mr.  0 returned, 

in  a  passionate  tone  of  voice. 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  0 sunk  to  the  floor.  She 

laid  her  hands  meekly  together,  and  sat  silent.  But 
her  heart  was  strong  in  its  determination  to  oppose 
to  the  last  every  attempt  made  to  coerce  Laura 

into  a  marriage  with  Ruffin.  Mr.  0 talked  a 

great  deal,  and  made  many  threats  and  assertions : 
but  to  none  of  them  did  his  wife  reply. 

"Can't  you  speak!"  he  at  length  exclaimed, 
losing  all  control  over  himself.  Never  before  had 
he  spoken  thus  to  her — never  before  had  he  exhi 
bited  toward  her  such  a  temper.  But,  never  before 
had  she'  set  herself  in  such  direct  opposition  to 
him. 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  0 were  lifted  timidly  to 

her  husband's  face  for  a  moment,  while  a  tremor 
ran  through  her  frame.  Then  she  let  them  fall 
again  to  the  floor,  and  sat,  still  silent. 

"  The  girl  shall  marry  him,"  said  0 

"Not  with  my  consent,"  replied  his  wife,  in  a 
husky,  but  decided  voice 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  49 


"  Woman,  are  you  mad  ?"  exclaimed  her  husband, 
again  thrown  off  his  guard. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  may  have  been  for  the 
last  twenty  years  of  my  life,  but  I  am  sane  now," 
was  calmly  returned.  "  I  love  my  child  too  well 
to  consent  to  her  sacrifice.  I  am  a  mother !" 

Accustomed  to  an  entire  submission  of  his  wife's 
will  to  his  own,  this  unexpected  opposition  and 
firmness  on  her  part,  while  it  was  unaccountable, 
chafed  his  temper  almost  beyond  endurance;  and 
yet  astonishment  produced  a  state  of  calmness. 
He  said  no  more  at  that  time,  but  he  resolved  that 
Laura  should  marry  Charles  Ruffin.  He  had  pro 
mised  the  father  as  much,  and  he  meant  to  keep 
his  promise,  in  spite  of  all  objections  and  opposi 
tion. 

As  soon  as  the  young  man  learned  the  favourable 

light  in  which  Mr.  0 viewed  the  matter,  his 

mind  was  at  rest  on  the  subject.  He  no  longer  ap 
proached  Laura  with  doubt  and  caution,  but  boldly 
preferred  his  suit  again,  and  was  again  as  promptly 
rejected.  This  was  communicated  to  old  Mr.  Ruf 
fin  on  the  next  morning,  and  he  called  on  Laura's 
father  immediately,  and  informed  him  of  what  had 
occurred. 

"  It  is  a  mere  whim  of  the  girl's,"  Mr.  0 re 
plied.  "I  will  see  her,  and  satisfy  her  that  she 
has  done  a  very  foolish  thing.  Charles  must  re 
new  his  attentions.  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  this 
marriage,  and  cannot  think  of  its  being  prevented." 

In  an  hour  afterward  he  entered  his  dwelling, 
and  found  Laura  sitting  in  one  of  the  parlours  alone. 
She  looked  up  at  her  father,  with  a  timid,  frighten- 

5 


50  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 

ed  air,  for  she  had  reason  to  believe  that  his  return 
home  at  an  unusual  hour  had  something  to  do  with 
her  second  rejection  of  Ruffin's  suit. 

Controlling  his  feelings  as  far  as  it  was  possible 

for  him  to  do  so,  Mr.  0 took  a  seat  beside  his 

daughter,  and  in  a  milder  and  more  persuasive  tone 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  speak  in,  said : — 

"  Laura,  my  dear,  what  are  your  reasons  for  de 
clining  so  advantageous  an  offer  as  the  one  made 
you  by  Charles  Ruffin  ?" 

The  maiden  answered  only  by  a  gush  of  tears. 
Mr.  0 waited  until  the  strength  of  his  daugh 
ter's  emotion  had  subsided.  He  then  resumed — 

"  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  seeing  a  union  take 
place  between  you  and  the  son  of  my  old  friend, 
and  it  would  grieve  me  deeply  were  I  to  be  disap 
pointed.  You  certainly  cannot  have  any  very 
strong  objections  to  Charles  ?  Why,  then,  do  you 
decline  the  offer  of  his  hand  ?" 

"  Father,"  replied  Laura,  looking  steadily  into 
his  face,  and  speaking  with  surprising  calmness,  "  I 
do  not  think  of  death  with  fear,  but  my  spirit 
shrinks  and  shudders  at  the  idea  of  becoming  united 

to  Charles  Ruffin.  Is  not  the  blood  of  poor  P 

upon  his  hands?" 

"And  is  that  your  only  objection?" 

"No,  sir.  I  can  never  love  him,  and  I  prefer 
death  to  marrying  a  man  I  do  not  love." 

"  So  much  for  a  girl's  silly  romance  !"  the  father 
sneeringly  replied,  beginning  to  lose  his  self-com 
mand.  "  I  wonder  who  put  all  this  nonsense  into 
your  head?" 

Laura  remained  silent. 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  51 

"  If  you  will  only  try  and  lay  aside  your  foolish 
prejudice  against  one  in  every  way  worthy  of  your 
highest  regard,"  said  Mr.  0 ,  changing  his  man 
ner  again,  and  speaking  in  a  low,  insinuating  voice 
—  "  and  consent  to  a  union  we  all  so  much  desire, 
there  is  nothing  I  will  not  do  for  you.  Whatever 
money  can  procure,  you  can  command.  I  know 
you  will  he  happy.  What  can  prevent  it  ?" 

"I  am  happy  here,  father,"  she  replied,  with  a 
quivering  lip.  "  Why  do  you  wish  to  push  me  out 
like  a  young  hird,  hut  half-fledged,  from  its  nest  ? 
My  wings  are  yet  too  weak  to  bear  me  up.  Father ! 
if  you  love  me,  let  me  stay  where  I  am,  and  remain 
what  I  am !" 

"You  cannot  always  remain  at  home,  Laura. 
You  will  become  a  wife,  and  form  the  centre  of  a 
new  home." 

"  There  is  time  enough  for  that,  if  it  take  place 
at  all,  these  five  years.  I  am  but  a  child  at  best, 
and  still  wish  to  shrink  beneath  the  shelter  of  my 
mother's  wing." 

0 was  unmoved  by  this  tender  appeal. 

"  Consider "  he  began. 

"I  can  consider  nothing,"  said  Laura,  interrupt 
ing  him,  with  something  of  indignation  in  her  voice, 
"  that  unites  my  name  with  that  of  Charles  RuflBn. 
A  marriage  between  us  is  impossible  !" 

This  broke  down  all  reserve  and  restraint. 

"  Girl !  You  shall  marry  him  !"  passionately  ex 
claimed  the  father. 

Mrs.  0 entered  at  the  moment,  and  heard  iu 

grief  and  surprise  the  last  words  uttered  by  her 
husband. 


52  THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


"  Oh,  do  not  rashly  say  that !"  she  cried  out  in 
a  voice  of  anguish.  "  You  must  not,  you  cannot, 
you  dare  not  sacrifice  your  child." 

"  I  have  said  the  word,  and,  so  help  me  heaven ! 
that  word  shall  be  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  Laura 
shall  become  the  wife  of  Charles  Ruffin." 

"  If  you  command  me,  father,  I  have  only  one 
thing  to  do,"  said  the  trembling  child,  her  face  pale 
as  ashes. 

"  And  pray  what  is  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  To  obey,"  was  briefly  replied. 

"You  shall  obey!"  angrily  returned  Mr.  0 ; 

and,  rising  from  his  chair,  he  left  the  room  and  the 
house. 

The  moment  the  door  closed  after  him,  Laura 
threw  herself,  weeping,  upon  her  mother's  bosom. 

Mrs.  0 had  no  word  of  comfort  to  offer,  no 

word  of  advice  to  give.  All  she  could  do  was  to 
weep  with  her  child. 

In  a  few  days,  the  suit  of  Ruffin  was  again  re 
newed.  As  a  last  hope,  Laura  appealed  to  his 
generosity  as  a  man  not  to  urge  her  into  a  marriage 
that  would  ma,ke  her  whole  life  miserable.  But  the 
appeal  was  vain. 

As  long  as  the  time  of  the  sacrifice  could  be  put 
off,  it  was  put  off.  But  it  was  made  at  last.  It  is 
hard  to  tell  which  suffered  most,  the  mother  or  her 
child,  during  the  few  short  months  that  elapsed  be 
fore  the  consummation  took  place  from  which  both 
shrunk  with  something  like  horror.  The  appear 
ance  and  manner  of  the  bride  occasioned  a  good 
deal  of  remark.  It  was  known  that  she  had  twice 
refused  the  hand  of  Ruffin,  and  it  was  also  pretty 


THE   BROKEN   HEAET.  53 


generally  believed  that  the  marriage  only  took 
place  in  obedience  to  the  father's  wishes.  No  tears 
were  shed  by  Laura ;  but  her  mother  wept  as  if  her 
heart  were  breaking — and  it  was  breaking.  Laura 
was  exceedingly  pale,  when  she  came  in  by  the  side 
of  the  man  to  whom  she  was  about  making  false 
vows.  Her  lips  were  strongly  compressed — her 
eyes  looked  inward — she  seemed  like  one  about  to 
commit  an  act  from  which  every  impulse  of  nature 

shrunk.  Mr.  0 observed  all  this  with  a  stern 

expression  on  his  face,  yet  with  an  unbending  de 
termination  to  let  the  sacrifice  be  made.  Charles 
Ruffin  was  fully  conscious  of  the  part  he  was  play 
ing,  and  of  the  impression  made.  For  a  moment 
he  felt  abashed,  but  the  recollection  of  something 
reassured  him,  and  he  did  not  hesitate. 

When  Laura,  at  last,  made  the  almost  inaudible 
response  that  sealed  her  fate,  her  mother  sank 
insensible  to  the  floor.  That  overtasked  heart 
could  bear  up  no  longer.  Its  cup  was  full. 

It  was  a  sad  marriage-festival.  Mrs.  0 did 

not  recover  during  the  evening,  and  Laura  could 
not  be  forced  from  the  chamber  where  her  mother 
lay  in  a  slumber  that  looked  like  death.  When  too 
late,  Charles  Ruffin  saw  that  he  had  pursued  his 
mean  spirit  of  revenge  too  far ;  that  a  reaction 
was  about  taking  place,  which  would  punish  him 
severely. 

The  large  and  brilliant  company,  that  had  assem 
bled  to  grace  a  marriage-festival,  returned  early, 
with  grave  looks  and  oppressed  feelings,  and  Mr. 

0 and  his  new  son-in-law  were  left  alone  in  the 

richly  decorated  but  now  deserted  drawing-rooms. 

6* 


54  THE    BROKEN    HEART. 

What  their  feelings  were,  it  is  hard  to  tell.  Few 
words  passed  between  them. 

The  young  husband  did  not  see  his  bride  again 
that  night.  She  could  not  be  forced  from  the  bed 
side  of  her  mother,  in  whom  few  signs  of  returning 
animation  were  apparent  for  many  hours. 

Morning  dawned  before  the  life-current  again 
flowed  freely  through  the  mother's  veins.  When 
reason  returned,  she  begged  to  be  left  alone  with 
Laura,  and  the  boon  was  granted.  For  a  long  time 
the  mother  and  child  lay  in  each  other's  arms,  and 
wept  together.  Then  the  former  essayed  to  dis 
charge  what  she  believed  to  be  her  last  duty  to  the 
wronged  spirit  that  was  just  entering  upon  a  life  of 
trial  and  suffering. 

"  How  shall  I  counsel  you,  my  dear  child  ?"  she 
said,  endeavouring  to  speak  with  calmness — "  how 
shall  I  prepare  you  for  the  new,  peculiar,  and  deeply 
trying  relations  on  which  you  are  about  to  enter  ? 
If  I  could  have  prevented  your  marriage  with  a  man 
you  say  you  do  not  love,  I  would  have  done  so ;  but 
now  you  are  a  wedded  wife,  you  have  taken  holy 
vows  upon  yourself — a  wife's  duties  you  must  endea 
vour  to  perform — to  a  wife's  vows  you  must  be  faith 
ful,  even  until  death.  I  trust  that  your  husband  is 
sincerely  attached  to  you,  and  that  you  will  not  find 
it  so  hard  as  you  have  feared,  to  return  something 
of  the  regard  he  professes  for  you.  It  may  be  in 
your  power  to  influence  him  for  good,  to  modify  and 
elevate  his  whole  character  ;  to  make  him,  what  you 
have  not  deemed  him,  worthy  of  your  love.  Oh ! 
how  sincerely  do  I  pray  that  this  may  be  the  case ; 
that  the  cup,  now  so  bitter  to  the  taste,  may  become 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  55 


sweetened  as  life  advances.  Such  things  have  often 
occurred — why  not  in  your  case  ?  Lay  your  hand 
upon  your  heart,  my  child,  and  keep  down  all  feel 
ings  of  repugnance ;  let  your  whole  demeanour 
toward  the  man  you  have  promised  to  love  become 
changed ;  meet  him  to-day  with  a  gentle  bearing, 
and  let  his  voice,  if  it  come  to  your  ear  in  words  of 
endearment,  find  its  way  into  some  chamber  of  your 
heart :  it  will  be  better,  far  better ;  I  know — I  know 
it  will !  He  cannot  but  have  some  true  love  for 
you.  Why  else  has  he  sought  your  hand  ?  Love 
Degetteth  love.  May  it  be  so  in  this  case  !" 

The  words  of  the  mother  sunk  into  the  heart  of 
her  child.  A  dim  light  glimmered  through  the 
darkness  in  which  her  spirit  had  been  enveloped. 
She  saw  that  she  had  a  duty  to  perform,  and  she 
nerved  herself  to  perform  it.  She  had  taken  upon 
herself  a  wife's  vows,  and  she  must  not  now  shrink 
from  the  tasks  they  imposed  upon  her. 

After  what  we  have  recorded,  and  much  more  to 
the  same  purpose  had  been  urged  by  the  mother, 
she  sunk  away  into  a  quiet  sleep.  For  the  first 
time  since  she  followed  her  parent's  insensible  form 
from  the  bridal-hall,  Laura  left  the  chamber  where 
she  had  retired.  She  had  not  seen  her  husband 
since  the  hour  when  the  minister,  in  a  solemn  voice, 
pronounced  them  man  and  wife ;  and  the  thought 
of  meeting  him  made  her  tremble.  But  she  nerved 
herself  under  a  newly  awakened  sense  of  duty.  As 
she  stepped  into  one  of  the  parlours — the  same  in 
which  the  nuptial  ceremony  had  taken  place — she 
saw  him  sitting  by  a  window,  with  his  head  leaning 
on  his  hand,  in  an  attitude  of  thought,  and,  what 


56  THE    BROKEN    HEART. 


seemed  to  her,  dejection.  She  was  touched  by  this, 
and  a  single  emotion  of  tenderness  swelled  in  her 
heart.  He  arose  to  his  feet  as  she  entered,  and 
advanced  a  few  steps  to  meet  her.  She  held  out 
her  hand  and  he  grasped  it  with  warmth,  and  made 
earnest  inquiries  after  her  mother.  These  she 
answered,  and  then  came  a  silence  that  hoth  found 
it  hard  to  break.  They  were  in  a  false  position, 
and  were  too  clearly  conscious  of  the  fact.  Casual 
and  indifferent  remarks  would  be  out  of  place  ;  and 
neither  dared  speak  the  thoughts  nearest  the 
heart. 

Ah !  are  not  these  perversions  of  the  marriage 
state  sad  to  think  of  ?  All  evil  is  the  perversion 
of  some  good :  the  higher  the  good,  therefore,  the 
more  direful  in  consequence  is  the  perversion.  Mar 
riage  is  the  highest  and  holiest  social  state  into 
which  man  is  capable  of  entering ;  if  entered  into 
from  right  motives,  it  induces  a  state  of  felicity 
beyond  what  any  other  relation  can  give ;  if  from 
wrong  motives,  it  will  become  a  condition  of  wretch 
edness  beyond  conception.  We  may  pity  the  weak 
ness  that  led  Laura  0 to  consent  to  this  unna 
tural  union  in  obedience  to  the  will  of  her  father, 
but  cannot  in  any  way  commend  the  act.  She  had 
no  more  right  to  obey  in  this  thing  than  he  had  to 
command;  in  obeying  she  was  deeply  culpable. 
Too  many  consequences  hung  upon  her  free  decision 
of  a  matter  of  such  intrinsic  importance.  After  a 
child  has  obtained  the  age  of  rationality  and  free 
dom,  and  becomes  responsible,  to  society  and  to  God 
for  every  act,  the  father  who  attempts  control  in  a 
matter  like  this  commits  sin ;  and  the  child  who 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  57 

submits  to  and  becomes  a  passive  subject  of  such 
control,  also  commits  sin. 

The  true  relation  of  parents  to  children,  is  one  in 
which  all  do  not  exercise  sufficient  discrimination. 
It  is  not  generally  seen,  that  the  parent  is  responsi 
ble  to  society  and  to  Heaven  for  his  child's  conduct, 
only  until  that  child  is  of  age  and  becomes  capable 
of  making  rational  discriminations  on  matters  per 
taining  to  life.  After  that  period,  no  parent  is 
guiltless  who  attempts  arbitrary  control.  He  has 
still  a  duty  to  perform,  but  should  emulate  the  bird 
that  teaches  its  fledgelings  the  use  of  their  wings  in 
performing  it.  He  should  no  longer  think  for  them 
and  decide  for  them,  but  should  guide  their  reason 
to  sound  judgments,  and  be  very  careful  in  doing 
this  not  to  force  the  child's  mind,  but  merely  to 
help  it  to  a  decision  of  its  own.  It  is  this  state  of 
freedom  and  reason  that  makes  the  man.  The  folly 
of  parents  choosing  conjugal  partners  for  their 
children  needs  not  the  painful  history  I  am  relating 
to  illustrate  it.  This  is  a  folly,  thank  Heaven  !  that 
is  reforming  itself  under  the  influence  of  increasing 
moral  light  and  freedom.  Its  opposite,  or  a  care 
lessness  as  to  whom  the  choice  might  rest  upon,  has 
prevailed  already  to  too  great  an  extent. 

The  embarrassed  position  of  the  young  couple 

was  relieved  by  the  entrance  of  Mr.  0 .  He 

had,  naturally,  a  good  share  of  tact  and  self-posses 
sion,  and  this  enabled  him  to  introduce  subjects  of 
conversation  that  were  calculated  to  lead  their  minds 
away  from  the  present,  and  to  make  them  feel  more 
at  ease.  Laura,  acting  from  a  newly  awakened 
sense  of  duty,  strove  to  appear  cheerful ;  and  her 


58  THE    BROKEN    HEART. 


husband,  glad  to  be  relieved  from  a  situation  by  no 
means  agreeable,  endeavoured  to  seem  as  cheerful 
as  she.  But  it  was  force-work  on  both  sides,  and 
apparent  to  both. 

Thus  began  the  married  life  of  Charles  Ruffin  and 
hi?  beautiful  bride.  The  promise  was  not  fair,  and 
the  result  did  not  belie  the  promise.  Many  weeks 
did  not  pass  before  the  heart  of  her  husband  was 
laid  bare  to  Laura ;  the  sight  filled  her  with  horror 
and  despair.  The  native  malignancy  of  the  man 
could  not  long  be  concealed — the  end  for  which  he 
had  sought  her  hand  no  duplicity  could  conceal,  no 
acting  disguise.  It  must  come  forth — and  it  did 
come  forth. 

The  meek  patience  of  the  pure-minded  woman  he 
had  wronged,  the  unwearying  efforts  she  made  to 
act  from  duty,  if  not  from  love,  irritated  him,  for  it 
was  a  rebuke  that  he  could  not  well  bear.  The 
forced  warmth  of  manner,  which  he  had  assumed  at 
first,  gave  place  in  a  little  while  to  indifference.  To 
this  succeeded  coldness ;  then  followed  words  harshly 
spoken ;  and  to  these  were  soon  added  the  taunts 
of  a  bitter  spirit. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  any  man  could  act 
so  mean,  so  malignant  a  part.  In  fact,  no  man, 
unless  possessed  of  an  infernal  spirit,  could  so  debase 
his  noble  nature. 

For  a  short  period  after  the  marriage  of  her 
daughter,  deceived  by  the  appearance  of  affection 
that  was  assumed  by  both  Laura  and  her  husband, 

Mrs.  0 ,  who  had  recovered  in  a  few  days  from 

the  shock  her  feelings  had  sustained  on  the  night  of 
the  wedding,  became  cheerful,  and,  in  some  measure/ 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  59 


resigned  to  an  event  that  had  taken  place  in  opposi 
tion  to  all  her  feelings  and  wishes.  But  she  did  not 
long  remain  deceived.  She  had,  herself,  suffered 
too  much  not  to  perceive  the  first  indications  of 
positive  suffering  in  her  child.  From  the  day  she 
became  fully  satisfied  that  Laura's  husband  had  no 
true  affection  for  her,  and  that  her  life  would  be  a 
burden  even  more  intolerable  to  bear  than  had  been 
her  own,  she  began  to  droop  in  spirits,  and  steadily 
declined  from  that  hour  until  life  closed  up  with  her 
its  troubled  history.  This  mournful  event  took 
place  about  two  years  after  Laura's  marriage. 
Long  before  its  occurrence,  Charles  Ruffin's  con 
duct  toward  his  wife  had  become  brutal.  Having 
attained  his  end,  the  natural  baseness  of  his  charac 
ter  soon  led  him  to  throw  off  all  disguise.  The  first 
indications  were  seen  in  his  indifference  to  business. 
But  few  weeks  elapsed  before  his  long  period  of 
absence  from  the  counting-room,  and  his  want  of 
interest  in  the  operations  of  the  house  while  there, 
attracted  the  notice  of  his  father.  As  this  defection 
increased  day  after  day,  old  Mr.  Ruffin  felt  it  to  be 
his  duty  to  remonstrate.  He  did  so  as  gently  as 
was  in  his  power.  This  produced,  what  the  young 
man  desired,  a  rupture,  and  he  withdrew  from  the 
new  firm  immediately. 

A  wife's  relation,  no  matter  how  uncongenial  it 
may  be,  involves  a  certain  degree  of  affection  for 
and  interest  in  a  husband.  In  a  little  while  Laura 
began  to  lean  toward  Charles  Ruffin,  and  her  heart 
began  to  take  hold  of  and  cling  to  him  as  the  vine 
clings  to  the  statelier  tree  that  supports  it.  In  his 
absence,  she  experienced  a  want  of  something,  and 


60  THE   BROKEN  HEART. 


involuntarily  looked  for  the  hour  of  his  return  with 
pleasure.  And  yet  she  found  little  satisfaction  in 
his  presence,  always  experiencing  a  strong  internal 
repulsion.  His  first  direct  expression  of  unkind- 
ness — the  first  laying  off  of  his  mask — took  place  at 
the  time  the  rupture  with  his  father  occurred.  He 
came  home,  soured  and  disturbed  in  mind,  and,  in  a 
captious  spirit  and  fretful  tone,  told  Laura  what  had 
happened,  adding,  with  emphasis — 

"  And  I  am  glad  of  it !" 

"  0  Charles !  Don't  say  so ! — don't  speak  in  that 
way  !"  exclaimed  Laura,  without  reflection. 

Opposition  of  any  kind,  no  matter  how  trivial, 
Ruffin  never  could  bear ;  it  fevered  his  whole  sys 
tem  in  an  instant. 

"  Why  not,  madam,  pray  ?"  he  replied,  drawing 
himself  up  in  an  imperious  manner,  and  looking 
sternly  at  poor  Laura,  into  whose  eyes  the  tears 
instantly  gushed.  There  was  no  reply. 

"  Why  not,  ha  ?"  repeated  the  husband.  "  Am  I 
not  a  free  man,  to  do  as  I  please  ?  Do  you  think  I 
am  going  to  confine  myself  to  a  dirty  store  ?  If  any 
one  does,  he  is  mistaken." 

To  this  Laura  had  not  a  word  to  answer.  His 
manner  had  completely  paralyzed  her.  He  could 
not  have  hurt  her  more,  had  he  struck  her  to  the 
earth. 

From  that  time  hope,  which  had  begun  to  spring 
up  in  the  heart  of  Laura,  died.  She  saw,  beneath 
the  thin  exterior  of  her  husband's  assumed  charac 
ter,  enough  of  the  real  qualities  of  his  mind,  to  rob 
her  of  all  the  desires  of  life. 

It  would  not  be  well   to  consume  the  reader's 


THE   BROKEN  HEART.  *        61 


time  by  tracing,  step  by  step,  the  life-progress  of 
this  unhappy  couple.  Enough,  that  each  passing 
month  and  year  only  widened  the  breach  that 
Charles  had  made.  For  his  wife  he  had  no  love, 
and  did  not  attempt  even  to  assume  a  virtue  he  did 
not  possess.  He  was  cold  toward  her,  and  neglected 
her  shamefully ;  and  led,  besides,  a  most  abandoned 
and  dissolute  life,  thus  wounding  her  spirit  more 
vitally. 

The  birth  of  a  child  gave  her  something  to  love 
— a  boon  for  which  she  was  deeply  thankful.  She 
could  not  have  survived  her  mother's  death,  which 
took  place  a  few  months  afterward,  had  not  this 
object  of  aifection  been  given. 

A  year  after  her  child  was  born,  her  husband's 
conduct  became  so  outrageous,  that  her  father  took 
her  home,  and  forbade  the  young  man  from  ever 
crossing  his  threshold.  In  stern,  unrelenting  pur 
pose,  Mr.  0 was  fully  a  match  for  Charles 

Ruffin,  and  had,  what  he  did  not  possess,  a  weight 
of  years  and  character  to  sustain  him. 

Many  months  did  not  elapse  before,  in  a  spirit 
of  revenge,  an  effort  was  made  by  Ruffin  to  see  his 
wife,  and  induce  her  to  leave  her  father's  protection, 
and  live  with  him  again. 

Laura  was  sitting,  one  day,  alone  in  her  room, 
with  her  babe  in  her  arms,  when  she  heard  a  man's 
step  behind  her.  She  turned  quickly,  in  affright, 
to  see  who  had  entered.  It  was  her  husband ! 

"How  are  you,  Laura?"  he  said,  in  a  mild,  in 
sinuating  voice,  advancing  toward  his  wife,  and  ex 
tending  his  hand. 

Surprise  and  agitation  prevented  Mrs.  Ruffin  from 
6 


62  THE   BROKEN  HEART. 

either  rising  or  speaking.  Her  husband  tooV  her 
hand,  and  pressed  it  within  his  own;  hut  there  was 
no  returning  pressure.  The  power  of  action  was 
gone. 

"  Laura,  why  don't  you  to  speak  to  me  I  Am  I 
not  your  husband?"  This  was  said  in  a  tone  of 
affected  sadness. 

"0  Charles!  why  have  you  come  here  to 
trouble  me?"  said  Mrs.  Ruffin,  as  soon  as  she  could 
utter  a  word.  "You  do  not  love  me — you  never 
have  loved  me.  I  am  in  quiet  here,  if  not  in  peace 
— leave  me  then  as  I  am." 

"Laura,  you  wrong  me,"  urged  the  young  man; 
"  I  do  love  you ;  I  have  always  loved  you.  An  un 
happy  temper  may  often  have  led  me  into  error ; 
but  still  I  feel  for  you  a  sincere  affection.  Sepa 
rated  from  you,  I  am  miserable.  Will  you  not" — 

At  this  moment,  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  came 
thundering  up  the  broad  avenue  that  led  to  the 
house.  Ruffin  glanced  from  the  window,  and  then 
glided  from  the  room  without  uttering  a  word. 
Laura  was  thrilled  by  a  sudden  fear ;  she  could  not 
rise  nor  scream,  but  sat  as  if  nailed  to  her  chair, 
awaiting  some  fearful  issue.  From  this  paralyzed 
state,  the  quick,  sharp  crack  of  a  pistol,  just  under 
the  window  where  she  sat,  aroused  her,  and  she 
sprang  forward  with  a  cry  of  agony. 

About  half  an  hour  previous  to  this  time,  a  friend 
entered  the  office  of  the  insurance  company  of  which 
Mr.  0 was  president,  and  hurriedly  communi 
cated  to  him  his  suspicion  that  his  son-in-law  had 
gone  out  to  visit  his  daughter ;  with  what  intent  he 
had  no  means  of  knowing.  In  five  minutes  after, 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  63 


Mr.  0 was  mounted  upon  a  swift  horse,  and 

galloping  out  of  the  city  in  the  direction  of  hia 
country-seat.  He  had  a  loaded  pistol  in  his  pocket, 
and  his  firm  resolution  was  to  shoot  Ruffin,  if  he 
found  him  anyAvhere  upon  his  premises.  As  he 
rode,  with  a  furious  gait,  up  to  his  house,  and  was 
about  checking  his  horse  to  dismount,  his  eye  caught 
the  form  of  a  man,  hurrying  down  stairs,  and  seek 
ing  egress  through  a  back  door.  He  doubted  not 
that  it  was  his  son-in-law,  and,  firm  in  his  purpose, 
he  drew  his  pistol  and  fired.  Happily  for  the  young 

man,  the  motion  of  the  horse,  upon  which  Mr.  0 

rode,  interfered  with  his  aim.  The  ball  glanced 
close  to  his  ear,  and  passed  on  harmlessly.  Spring 
ing  from  the  reeking  animal  upon  which  he  had 
ridden  with  such  hot  haste,  the  excited  father  dashed 
through  the  hall,  and  sought  to  overtake  the  fugi 
tive.  But  Rufiin  had  no  wish  to  meet  Mr.  0 

under  such  circumstances,  and  managed  to  elude 
him  entirely. 

Finding  his  pursuit  vain,  Mr.  0 returned, 

and  hurried  up  to  his  daughter's  room.  He  found 
her  upon  the  floor,  insensible;  and  her  child,  that 
she  had  been  able  to  protect  in  her  fall,  lying  asleep, 
and  drawn  tightly  to  her  bosom.  The  sight  touched 
him  deeply,  and  brought  back  upon  his  mind  re 
buking  thoughts.  It  was  his  own  handiwork  he 
saw  before  him.  He  had  forced  his  child  into  an 
uncongenial  union,  and  now  had  no  power  to  restore 
peace  to  the  heart  he  had  so  cruelly  wronged. 

Domestics  were  instantly  called  in ;  or,  rather, 
had  already  crowded  into  the  apartment,  alarmed 
by  the  hurried  arrival  of  their  master  and  the  noise 


64  THE   BROKEN  HEART. 

of  his  pistol.  They  had  seen  no  one  enter  nor  leave 
the  house,  and  could  not  conjecture  the  cause  of 
what  had  passed  so  hurriedly.  The  first  impression 

produced  upon  their  minds  was,  that  Mr.  0 

had  shot  his  daughter.  This  variously  affected 
them. .  Some  fled  to  remote  parts  of  the  house  in 
terror,  while  one  or  two  came  forward  and  assisted 
the  father  to  lift  his  child  from  the  floor  and  place 
her  upon  a  bed.  The  gardener,  who  was  rushing 
into  the  house,  having  been  alarmed  by  the  report 
of  the  pistol,  was  met  in  the  hall  by  the  cook,  whose 
starting  eyes  and  quivering  lips  told  a  tale  of  horror. 

"What's  the  matter?  What's  the  matter?"  the 
man  inquired  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !"  sobbed  the  cook — the 
effort  to  speak  bringing  a  flood  of  tears — "  Massa 
0 shot  poor  Miss  Laura,  and  killed  her  dead." 

The  gardener  stayed  to  hear  no  more,  but  turned 
away  and  fled  from  the  house,  spreading  alarm  in 
every  direction.  He  paused  not  until  he  had  reached 
the  city,  where  he  gave  information  to  a  magistrate) 

who  issued  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Mr.  0 , 

and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  an  ofiicer. 

The  fainting  fit  of  Mrs.  Ruflm  was  of  but  short 
duration.  She  opened  her  eyes  after  the  lapse  of 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes.  The  presence  of  he. 
father  bewildered  her  mind.  She  remembered,  wit." 
painful  distinctness,  the  visit  of  her  husband,  the 
hurried  sound  of  a  horse's  feet,  and  the  discharg : 
of  a  pistol.  From  that  moment  all  was  blank.  Bui 
there  was  a  vail  of  horror  over  her  mind.  The  loo! 
of  anxious  inquiry  she  cast  upon  her  father  con 
strained  him  to  say — 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  65 


"  No  one  has  been  harmed.  I  only  came  home 
to  protect  you  from  outrage." 

"Was  it  you  who  rode  up  the  avenue  so  hur 
riedly?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Did  he  ?" — she  could  not  finish  the  sentence, 
but  what  she  wished  to  say  was  understood.  Mr. 
0 was  silent. 

"He  did  not  attempt  to  harm  you,  father?  Oh, 
no !  He  could  not  do  that — I  am  sure  he  could 
not.  He  is  passionate,  and  has  many  faults,  but 
that  he  could  not  do." 

With  some  reluctance,  Mr.  0 admitted  that 

he  had  attempted  to  shoot  Ruffin.  Laura  shuddered 
and  closed  her  eyes.  Almost  as  suddenly  as  if  a 
hand  had  been  laid  upon  her  heart  did  its  pulsations 
cease ;  but  in  a  little  while  they  were  renewed,  and 
the  current  of  life  went  on  again  in  its  circle. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  0 could  leave  the  chamber 

of  Laura,  he  did  so.  He  descended  to  the  hall,  and 
was  approaching  the  front  door  of  the  house,  when 
three  men,  with  severe  and  resolute  faces,  entered. 
One  of  them  stepped  forward,  saying,  as  he  did  so, 
"I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of,"  &c.,  and  placed  his 

hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  0 .  In  an  instant, 

the  officer  lay  upon  the  floor,  and,  in  an  instant 

after,  the  arms  of  Mr.  0 were  pinioned  by  the 

two  assistants,  and  he  hurried  out  of  the  house  and 
thrust  into  a  carriage,  which  was  driven  off  at  full 
speed  for  the  city. 

For  some  time,  astonishment  kept  Mr.  0 

dumb.     His  mind  sought  in  vain  for  an  explanation 

of  this  outrage  upon  his  person.     What  could  it 

6* 


66  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 

mean  ?  The  whole  thing  was  inexplicable.  As 
soon  as  he  could  control  himself  to  speak,  he  turned 
to  the  officers  who  had  arrested  him,  and  said — 

"  May  I  ask  what  all  this  means  ?  Why  am  I 
dragged  from  my  house  like  a  felon  or  murderer?1' 

"  You  are  accused  of  murder." 

"  Me  ?"  in  a  voice  of  astonishment. 

"  Yes ;  of  the  murder  of  your  daughter  ?" 

"By  whom?" 

"By  a  man  who  says  he  is  your  gardener." 

"  Indeed !  Perhaps  you  had  better  turn  back 
and  see  whether  my  daughter  be  alive  or  dead." 
This  was  spoken  with  bitter  irony.  The  officer 
merely  replied — 

"  My  duty  is  to  take  your  person  before  a  magis 
trate;  not  to  investigate  the  charges  against  you." 

0 sunk  back  in  the  carriage,  silent,  but 

deeply  indignant  at  the  outrage  he  had  received. 
On  arriving  at  the  magistrate's  office,  he  found  his 
gardener  there,  looking  pale  and  frightened.  The 
poor  fellow  believed,  solemnly,  that  what  the  cook 
had  told  him  was  true.  When  called  upon  to  give 
his  testimony,  he  had  only  the  fact  of  hearing  the 
pistol  discharged  and  the  cook's  affirmation  to  sus 
tain  the  allegation  he  had  made,  and  upon  which 
the  warrant  for  arrest  had  been  issued. 

"We  must  summon  the  cook,"  said  the  magis 
trate,  beginning  to  fill  up  a  summons. 

"  I  would  advise  you,  to  make  sure  of  getting  at 

the  truth,  to  summon  my  daughter,"  said  Mr.  0 , 

bitterly.  "  She  could  testify  to  the  fact  of  being 
shot,  or  shot  at,  more  clearly  than  any  one  else." 

The  magistrate  looked  at  the  prisoner  with  sur- 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  6T 


prise,  for  a  moment,  and  then  proceeded  to  fill  up 
the  summons  and  despatch  it.  The  distance  was 
full  three  miles,  and  an  hour  and  a  half  elapsed  be 
fore  the  cook  was  brought  in,  looking  half  frightened 
to  death.  Ocular  demonstration  had  fully  con 
vinced  her  that  "Miss  Laura"  was  not  murdered, 
and  she  had  it  from  her  own  lips  that  she  had  not 
even  been  shot  at.  Her  evidence  settled  the  matter, 

and  Mr.  0 was  released  from  custody,  with 

many  apologies  and  expressions  of  regret  that  such 
a  mistake  had  occurred. 

While  the  investigation  at  the  magistrate's  was 
going  on,  Rumour,  with  her  hundred  tongues,  spread 
the  news  through  the  city  that  a  horrible  murder 
had  taken  place.  I  heard  it  with  a  thrill  of  horror, 
for  it  came  in  such  a  shape  that  I  could  not  help 
believing  it.  No  cause  for  the  dreadful  deed  was 
alleged,  for  none  could  be  imagined.  I  shall  never 
forget  my  feelings  on  the  next  day,  when,  in  passing 

along  the  street,  I  met  0 walking,  with  his 

usual  firm  step  and  erect  head,  quietly  along  the 
pave.  No  contradiction  of  the  rumours  of  the  pre 
ceding  evening  had  reached  my  ears,  and  I,  there 
fore,  still  believed  him  to  be  the  murderer  of  his  child. 
The  sensation  I  experienced,  I  cannot  describe. 

When  the  real  cause  of  all  this  mortifying  ex 
posure  and  false  accusation  became  known,  the  feel 
ing  against  Charles  Ruffin  was  very  strong — and  he 
felt  strongly,  too.  Toward  the  father  of  Laura,  he 
indulged  a  murderous  hate,  and  vowed  to  be  deeply 
revenged.  How  he  sought  this  revenge  will  be  seen. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  the  excitement  and  gossip 
occasioned  by  the  events  we  have  mentioned,  died 


68  THE   BEOKBN   HEAKT. 

entirely  away,  and  the  circumstances  attending  them 
were  forgotten,  except  by  a  few,  in  whose  memories 
such  incidents  are  always  kept  alive.  The  child  of 
Laura  had  grown  to  a  sweet  little  girl,  five  years  of 
age,  and  was  the  strong  cord  that  bound  her  mother 
to  life.  In  the  few  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the 

death  of  his  wife,  Mr.  0 had  grown  old  rapidly. 

His  tall,  erect  form  had  acquired  a  slight  stoop ; 
his  hair  had  lost  its  jetty  blackness ;  he  walked  with 
a  slower  and  more  careful  gait.  In  the  vigour  of 
early  manhood,  and  even  in  its  staid  and  firm  ma 
turity,  he  had  never  loved  any  thing  so  well  as  him 
self — had  loved,  sincerely,  nothing  out  of  himself. 
But  his  infant  grandchild  had  won  upon  his  tenderest 
feelings ;  had  entwined  herself  with  every  fibre  of 
his  heart,  He  never  tired  of  her  sweet  prattle — 
•when  at  home,  she  was  ever  by  his  side,  or  in  his 
arms,  and,  while  away,  she  was  ever  in  his  thoughts. 

The  husband  of  Laura,  since  his  first  attempt  to 
see  her,  had  made  no  overt  act  that  looked  to  the 
same  end.  For  a  greater  part  of  the  time  he  had 
been  away  from  Baltimore,  residing  in  one  of  the 
West  India  islands. 

Thus  matters  stood,  when  Mr.  0 was  startled, 

and  his  daughter  terrified,  by  the  institution  of  a 
suit  on  behalf  of  Charles  Ruffin,  for  the  possession 
of  his  infant  daughter.  The  effect  upon  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Ruffin  was  so  serious,  that  medical  advice 
was  deemed  necessary,  and  I  was  called  in  to  see 
her,  as  intimated  in  the  beginning  of  this  history. 
It  was  my  first  visit  to  the  family. 

I  was  preparing  to  go  out,  one  afternoon,  when 
Mr.  0 himself  entered  my  office.  We  were  not 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  69 

personally  acquainted,  though  each  of  us  knew  the 
other  very  well  by  reputation.  He  looked  agitated, 
yet  evidently  was  striving  to  appear  calm. 

"Are  you  very  much  engaged,  this  afternoon, 
doctor  ?"  he  said,  as  he  took  my  hand. 

"  I  have  several  calls  to  make,"  I  replied.  "  But 
if  there  is  any  pressing  need  of  my  attendance  ia 
another  quarter,  I  shall  feel  myself  bound  to  go." 

"I  wish  you  to  see  my  daughter,"  Mr.  0 

said.  "  She  is  in  a  very  unhappy  state  of  mind. 
I  don't  know  that  medicine  can  do  her  any  good. 
Still  I  would  like  you  to  see  her." 

"  What  is  the  nature  of  the  affection  under  which 
she  is  suffering?"  I  asked. 

Mr.  0 looked  thoughtful  for  some  moments, 

and  then  said — 

"  A  disease  of  the  mind,  doctor,  beyond  the  reach 
of  your  skill,  I  fear." 

He  then  related,  briefly,  some  of  the  facts  con 
nected  with  her  unhappy  marriage,  and  concluded 
by  saying  that  the  effect  upon  her  mind,  of  the  suit 
which  her  husband  had  instituted  for  the  recovery 
of  his  child,  was  of  a  most  distressing  and  alarming 
character,  causing  him  to  tremble  for  her  reason. 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  cause  for  her  being 
so  much  alarmed,"  I  remarked.  "Her  husband 
cannot  get  possession  of  the  child  by  any  legal 
process." 

"I  wish  I  only  felt  sure  of  that,  doctor,"  was 
replied,  mournfully.  "  But  I  do  not.  By  the  law 
which  governs  in  these  cases,  the  father  has  a  right 
to  claim  his  offspring.  For  years,  I  have  dreaded 
just  what  has  at  last  happened.  I  knew  too  well 


70  THE    BROKEN    HEART. 

the  vindictive  spirit  of  Charles  Ruffin,  to  hope, 
except  for  a  brief  time,  that  he  would  fail  to  stab 
us  in  this  tender  place.  My  fears  I  never  breathed 
to  my  unhappy  child — and  she  had  no  thought  of 
danger  like  this.  The  announcement  of  the  fact 
that  a  suit  had  been  commenced,  fell  upon  her  as 
unexpectedly  as  a  bolt  from  a  summer  sky,  and  has 
completely  prostrated  her.  Since  the  whole  truth 
burst  upon  her,  and  her  mind  fully  apprehended  the 
danger  that  threatened,  she  has  confined  herself, 
with  our  dear  little  Ella,  in  her  room,  and  will 
admit  no  one  but  myself  and  the  nurse.  If  I  urge 
the  necessity  of  taking  the  child  out,  that  it  may 
breathe  the  fresh  air  in  the  garden  or  upon  the 
lawn,  she  answers  me  only  with  tears.  If  I  attempt 
to  take  the  child  from  the  room  against  her  wish, 
she  seizes  hold  of  it  frantically,  and  utters  such 
cries  of  anguish  that  I  am  forced  to  desist.  It  is 
now  ten  days  since  either  she  or  the  dear  little  one 
has  left  her  chamber,  and  the  health  of  both  are 
beginning  to  suffer.  The  child  is  pining  to  get  out, 
but  her  mother  will  not  let  her  go." 

Then  uttering  a  bitter  imprecation  upon  the 
author  of  all  this  misery,  he  turned  quickly  and 
said  : 

"  But  come,  doctor,  my  carriage  is  at  the  door. 
You  must  see  her  yourself;  perhaps  you  may  be 
able  to  do  something." 

I  was  not  very  sanguine  of  this.  I  had  no  ac 
quaintance  with  Mrs.  Ruffin,  and  did  not  believe 
that  in  her  state  of  mind,  if  truly  described,  she 
would  give  any  confidence  to  a  stranger.  I  sug 
gested  this,  but  Mr.  0— —  thought  differently,  and 


THE    BROKEN   HEART.  71 

I  did  not  care  to  anticipate  difficulties ;  besides,  he 
had  mentioned  that  the  child  seemed  feverish  and 
needed  some  attention. 

On  arriving  at  the  house  and  going  to  the  door 
of  Mrs.  Ruffin's  room,  we  found  it  locked. 

"It  is  always" so,"  said  Mr.  0 ,  as  he  tapped 

lightly  against  it. 

"Who's  there?"  I  heard  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Open  the  door,  Laura.  It  is  I,"  her  father 
replied. 

The  door  was  half  opened,  and  held  tightly  until 

Mr.  0 crowded  in,  and  then  it  was  shut  with  a 

sudden  jar,  leaving  me  upon  the  outside.  I  remained 
where  I  was  for  the  space  of  about  five  minutes.  I 
could  hear  the  sound  of  voices  within,  sometimes 
loud  and  excited,  and  sometimes  low  and  plead 
ing.  I  could  also  hear  occasional  sobs.  At  the 

expiration  of  this  time,  Mr.  0 came  out,  as 

before  crowding  through  a  small  aperture  of  the 
door. 

"  She  has  at  last  consented  to  see  you,  doctor," 
he  said.  "  I  gained  my  end  only  by  assuming  that 
Ellen  was  very  ill,  and  must  have  medical  at 
tendance." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  her  now  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Yes,  she  is  ready  to  receive  you." 

He  then  tapped  at  the  door  again,  after  he  had 
answered  her  query  of  who  was  there.  Mrs.  Ruffin 
partly  opened  it  as  before,  and  we  crowded  through. 
The  instant  we  were  within  she  closed  the  door 
with  an  energetic  action,  double  locked  and  bolted 
it,  and  then  sprang  back  to  where  a  little  girl  was 


72  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 


standing  in  tears,  and  caught  her  wildly  up  in  her 
arms. 

"  They  want  to  take  her  away,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  deep  blue  eyes  to  mine — "  hut  they  can't  do  it. 
Nobody  shall  take  my  child  from  me." 

"Nobody  can  take  her  from  you,"  I  said,  falling 
in  at  once  in  a  familiar  way  with  her  mood.  "  She 
is  yours,  and  nobody  can  touch  her.  Poor  child," 
I  added,  putting  my  hand  upon  her  head,  "  she  does 
not  look  well.  She  wants  fresh  air  and  exercise." 

"I  think  she  is  very  well,  doctor,"  the  mother 
returned  quickly.  "I  keep  the  windows  open  a 
good  deal,  and  she  can  play  through  the  room.  It 
is  large." 

"  But  this  room  is  not  like  the  green  lawn  out  of 
doors ;  nor  are  the  drooping  flowers  with  which 
these  vases  are  filled,  like  the  fresh  blossoms  in  your 
beautiful  garden.  She  must  have  fresh  air,  madam, 
and  exercise  out  of  doors." 

"  But  the  danger,  doctor !  Think  of  the  danger  !" 
She  spoke  in  a  deep  whisper,  and  with  a  look  of 
love. 

"There  is  no  danger,  madam.  None  in  the 
world." 

"  Oh,  but  there  is  !  They  are  watching  all  around 
the  house  for  her,  and  would  snatch  her  up  in  a  mo 
ment.  Isn't  it  dreadful !" 

The  poor  creature  shuddered  from  head  to  foot. 

"  It  would  be  dreadful  if  this  were  the  case,  but 
I  can  assure  you  it  is  not,  madam.  Now,  that  a 
suit  has  been  commenced,  all  parties  will  wait  for 
its  termination.  If  there  had  been  any  wish  on  the 
part  of  any  one  to  obtain  forcible  possession  of  your 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  73 


child,  no  suit  would  have  been  instituted.  There 
have  been  hundreds  of  opportunities  for  carrying 
her  off." 

But  the  mother's  mind  was  not  accessible  to  reason. 
Her  fears  overshadowed  every  thing.  Nothing  that 
I  could  urge  made  any  impression  upon  her. 

"You  are  not  afraid  to  ride  out  with  your 
father?"  I  said,  after  a  pause.  "The  carriage 
could  be  shut  up  closely,  and  no  one  would  suspect 
who  was  in  it." 

"I  wouldn't  leave  this  room  with  Ella  for  the 
vorld,"  she  replied,  in  a  solemn  voice.  "You  can 
not  tempt  me,  doctor." 

"Your  father  is  able  to  protect  you  and  Ella." 

"And  will  protect  you  with  my  life,"  said  Mr. 
0 . 

But  Mrs.  Ruffin  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  drew 
her  child  closer  to  her  side. 

I  was  puzzled;  and  Mr.  0 looked  anxious 

and  disturbed.  After  some  moments  of  hurried 
reflection,  I  drew  him  aside,  and  said  aloud  enough 
for  Mrs.  Ruffin  to  hear  me, 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  advisable  to  leave 
this  place  and  go  away  into  the  country,  say  forty 
or  fifty  miles,  where  no  one  would  dream  of  seek 
ing  for  the  child?" 

A  side  glance  at  Mrs.  Ruffin  satisfied  me  that  she 
not  only  heard  every  word,  but  was  deeply  interested 
in  what  I  said. 

"Let  me  think,"  replied  the  father,  understand 
ing  me  in  a  moment.  And  he  stood  thoughtful  for 
some  time. 

"  Where  could  we  go  ?"  he  at  length  asked. 
7 


74  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that,  there  are  hundreds  of  secluded 
little  spots,  at  any  one  of  which  concealment  would 
be  perfect." 

"How  would  you  like  that,  Laura?"  Mr.  0 

said,  turning  and  speaking  to  his  daughter. 

"  Oh,  above  all  things.  Let  us  go  far  away  from 
here.  Not  fifty,  nor  a  hundred,  but  a  thousand 
miles." 

"  Very  well.  Then  we  will  go.  Any  thing  for 
safety.  Can  you  be  ready  in  a  week  ?" 

"  In  a  week  !  Yes,  in  an  hour.  Oh  !  father,  let 
us  go  instantly.  Dear  little  Ella  may  be  taken  from 
us  to-night." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  danger  of  that,"  I 
urged :  "  besides,  it  takes  some  time  to  prepare  for 
so  long  a  journey." 

"  But  think  of  the  urgency  of  the  case,  doctor ; 
that  calls  for  extraordinary  haste.  I  am  ready — 
or,  can  be  ready  in  an  hour.  Let  us  go  to-day." 

"It  will  be  impossible,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr. 

0 .  "We  cannot  start  before  to-morrow,  at 

the  earliest." 

With  difficulty  we  got  her  reconciled  to  wait  until 
the  next  day,  and  then  left  her  alone  to  consult 
upon  what  was  best  to  be  done.  The  poor  child 
begged  and  cried  to  go  with  her  grandfather,  but 
the  mother  kept  fast  hold  of  her.  The  sight  grieved 
me  much. 

I  talked  the  matter  over  with  Mr.  0 for  an 

hour.  It  was  finally  determined  that  a  pleasant 
house  should  be  taken,  if  one  could  be  found,  some 
where  within  five  or  ten  miles  of  the  city,  and  pre 
pared  for  the  reception  of  the  unhappy  mother  and 


Jfe- 

THE   BROKEN   HEART.  75 


her  child.  Then  a  journey  of  at  least  a  week  should 
be  made  in  the  family  carriage,  at  the  end  of  which 
period,  the  house  selected  should  be  reached,  and 
thus  the  impression  be  made  upon  Mrs.  R.'s  mind, 
that  she  was  at  least  two  hundred  miles  away  from 
Baltimore.  In  deciding  upon  this  course,  numerous 
difficulties  presented  themselves,  but  were  finally 
set  aside.  The  most  prominent  was,  the  necessary 
absence  from  his  daughter  and  grand-daughter,  that 

would  be  required  on  the  part  of  Mr.  0 ,  who 

had  to  be  in  the  city  every  day.  If  he  were  to 
return  home  every  night,  the  suspicion  would  at 
once  arise  that  they  could  not  be  two  hundred  miles 
from  the  threatened  danger.  It  was  at  last  de 
termined  that  he  should  go  to  them  twice  a  week, 
and  leave  his  daughter  to  infer  that  he  came  nearly 
the  whole  distance  by  steamboat. 

This  was  just  the  extent  of  my  medical  ser 
vices  in  the  case  on  my  first  visit.  The  plan  pro 
posed  was  carried  out,  and  I  saw  no  more  of 

either  Mr.  0 or  his  daughter  for  nearly  three 

months. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  suit  instituted  by  Ruffin  pro 
gressed  as  fast  as  the  nature  of  the  case  allowed. 
The  most  untiring  efforts  were  made  by  mutual 
friends  to  divert  him  from  his  malignant  purpose, 
but  his  resolution  to  carry  the  thing  through,  re 
mained  firm.  His  father  opposed  him  as  strongly 
as  any  one ;  but  persuasion  and  remonstrance  were 
alike  unavailing.  His  only  answer  was : 

"  It  is  my  child,  and  the  law  will  give  her  to  me. 
I  did  not  separate  myself  from  my  wife ;  she  left 
me,  and  took  away  my  child.  She  may  remain 


76  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 


where  she  is.  I  do  not  care  to  see  her ;  but  my 
child  I  will  have.  The  law  is  clear  on  this  head, 
and  I  am  very  willing  to  await  its  decision." 

At  length  the  day  of  trial  drew  near ;  and  much 
excitement  prevailed  on  the  subject.  But,  as  the 
matter  was  never  alluded  to  in  any  of  the  news 
papers — means  being  taken  to  prevent  this — the 
knowledge  of  it  was  confined  to  a  particular  circle. 
My  practice  was  in  this  circle.  Wherever  I  went, 
the  theme  of  conversation  was  the  approaching  suit. 
In  not  one  instance  did  I  hear  an  expression  of 
sympathy  for  Ruffin.  Every  voice  was  lifted  against 
him,  and  the  statute  that  would  tear  from  a  mother's 
arms  her  child,  denounced  in  the  severest  terms  as 
unjust  and  in  opposition  to  the  very  first  laws  of 
Nature.  But  this  did  not  stay  the  regular  pro 
gression  of  events.  At  length  the  day  arrived,  the 

case  was  called,  and  Mr.  0 required  to  produce 

the  child  in  court. 

From  the  time  of  Mrs.  Ruffin's  removal  from  the 
family  homestead,  up  to  this  period,  she  had  lived 
in  imagined  seclusion.  But  a  knowledge  of  her 
unhappy  state  of  mind,  the  ruse  that  had  been 
practised  upon  her,  and  where  she  was,  was  known 
to  all  her  friends,  and  even  widely  beyond  this  circle 
of  true  sympathy.  The  order  to  bring  the  child 

into  court,  an  order  upon  which  Mr.  0 had  not 

at  all  calculated,  created  :in  his  mind  the  most  anxious 
solicitude.  It  could  not  be  done  without  endanger 
ing  the  very  life  of  his  daughter. 

It  was  at  this  crisis,  that  I  was  again  summoned 
to  attend  Mrs.  Ruffin.  Why  I  was  selected,  I  never 
could  exactly  understand.  The  regular  physician 


T1IE   BROKEN   HEART.  77 


of  the  family  was  a  man  of  distinguished  pro 
fessional  ability,  and  a  competent  adviser.  As 

before,  Mr.  0 called  upon  me  at  my  office. 

He  looked  haggard  and  careworn,  and  appeared 
at  least  five  years  older  than  when  I  last  saw  him. 
He  stated  to  me  the  alarming  aspect  of  affairs,  and 
asked  for  my  advice  as  a  physician,  a  father,  and 
a  man. 

"  As  for  me,"  he  said,  "  I  have  lost  that  clear 
perception  of  things  which  I  usually  possess.  I 
feel  bewildered  half  of  my  time.  I  cannot  see  what 
it  is  right  for  me  to  do.  Sometimes  I  get  so  excited, 
that  I  am  strongly  tempted  to  bring  the  whole  thing 
to  a  close  by  blowing  put  the  brains  of  that  infamous 
rascal,  whose  fiend-like  persecutions  have  made  my 
poor  child  more  than  half  a  maniac,  and  threaten  to 
destroy  her  life.  And  after  all  is  said,  I  believe 
this  is  the  only  horn  of  the  dilemma  left.  It  will 
kill  Laura  to  take  away  her  daughter;  or,  worse, 
entirely  unsettle  her  reason.  Is  there  any  doubt 
as  to  my  right  course  ?  I  must  choose  between  the 
death  of  my  child,  or  the  death  of  her  persecutor? 
And  I  will  choose  !" 

As  Mr.  0 uttered  the  last  sentence,  his  face 

grew  black  with  passion,  and  he  turned  from  me 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  fully  resolved  upon 
a  desperate  deed.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  said  in  a  firm  voice : 

"Think  again,  Mr.  0 .  Perhaps  a  better 

way  may  be  found."  • 

"I  have  thought  of  every  thing,"  he  replied — 
"  and  I  see  but  one  course ;  a  dreadful  one,  I  ad 
mit  ;  but  desperate  cases  require  desperate  remedies. 

7* 


78  THE  BROKEN   HEART. 


Laura's  child  shall  not  be  dragged  from  her  arms ! 
I  swear  it,  solemnly,  this  hour  !  With  my  life  I  will 
prevent  this  cruel  outrage." 

"You  will  not  attempt  the  murderous  deed  you 
have  threatened,"  I  said,  looking  earnestly  into  the 
face  of  Mr.  0 . 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I'll  guard  the 
asylum  of  my  injured  child,  and  guard  it  with  my 
life.  I  shall  return  home  to-night  well  armed,  and, 
remaining  at  home,  await  the  issue.  If  the  myrmi- 
doms  of  the  law  come  to  drag  our  sweet  babe  away 
from  us,  they  will  do  their  work  only  by  passing 
over  my  dead  body.  I  have  formed  this  instant 
resolution;  and  I  mean  to  abide  by  it." 

"Let  me  suggest  a  better  "way,"  I  said,  in  reply 
to  this. 

"  There  is  no  better  way;  but  let  me  hear  what 
you  have  to  propose." 

"  I  will  go  home  with  you  to-night,  and  see  your 
daughter.  To-morrow  we  will  return,  and  I  will 
go  into  court  and  testify  as  a  physician,  that  to 
remove  the  child  will  be  to  destroy  either  the 
mother's  reason  or  her  life.  I  will  also  describe 
to  the  court  the  distressing  consequences  already 
attendant  upon  this  unnatural  prosecution,  and  urge 
every  humane  consideration  in  favour  of  letting  the 
suit  go  on  without  further  disturbing  the  unhappy 
mother." 

"  That  is,  you  would  merely  leg  for  justice  ?" 

"  Call  it  what  yoji  please.  In  a  case  like  this, 
the  best  means  are  the  wisest,  and  should  be  adopted 
by  a  wise  man,  without  letting  his  feelings  come 
into  the  question.  You  propose  to  defend  your 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  79 


daughter  from  this  outrage  by  an  appeal  to  deadly 
weapons  ?  Very  well ;  suppose  you  shoot  half-a- 
dozen  men,  you  will  be  at  length  overpowered  and 
dragged  away,  if  not  killed  upon  the  spot.  Do  you 
think  this  would  'make  Mrs.  Ruffin's  position  any 
better?  You  know  that  it  would  not.  No — no, 
sir ;  I  have  proposed  the  only  safe  course,  and  one 
that  will,  I  am  sure,  bring  about  the  result  we  so 
much  desire." 

"Well,  if  you  think  it  will  do  any  good,  I  am 
willing  to  see  the  trial  made ;  but  I  have  no  faith 
in  the  result.  It  will  have  to  come  at  last  to  what 
I  have  said." 

"I  do  not  think  so..  For  such  an  alternative  I 
cannot  believe  there  is  any  necessity." 

"  There  is  law  in  this  country,  doctor,  but  little 
justice.  However,  I  have  agreed  to  let  you  manage 
the  thing  in  your  own  way — or  at  least  try  to  manage 
it.  I  will  wait  as  patiently  as  I  can  for  the  issue 
of  that  trial.  You  go  home  with  me  this  afternoon  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Can  you  start  at  once  ?" 

"  I  will  be  ready  to  go  with  you  in  a  very  few 
minutes,"  I  replied,  and  left  him  for  a  short  time, 
in  order  to  make  a  few  hurried  preparations  to 
attend  him. 

A  rapid  drive  of  an  hour  and  a  half  brought  us 
to  the  secluded  spot  where  Mrs.  Ruffin  imagined 
she  was  concealed  from  the  knowledge  of  every  one. 
As  the  carriage  came  up  to  the  door,  we  found  her 
seated  in  a  garden-chair,  on  a  beautiful  lawn  in  front 
of  the  house — her  little  girl  playing  near  her.  She 
remembered  me  the  moment  I  alighted  from  the 


80  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 


carriage,  and  came  forward  with  my  name  upon  her 
lips.  No  smile  lit  up  her  pale  face  as  she  greeted 
me ;  no  light  sparkled  in  her  eye.  I  spoke  cheer 
fully  to  her,  but  she  did  not  answer  in  a  cheerful 
voice.  When  I  took  her  little  girl  by  the  hand,  a 
look  of  alarm  gathered  upon  her  face,  and  she  took 
fast  hold  of  the  child's  hand.  I  smiled  and  said  : 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  me  ?" 

She  did  not  make  any  answer ;  but  I  could  see 
from  her  half-averted  face,  and  whole  manner,  that 
she  regarded  me  with  suspicion. 

"Come,  dear,"  she  said  to  her  child,  "the  dew 
is  beginning  to  fall;  we  must  go  into  the  house" — 
and  she  led  her  daughter  away.  The  child  was  re 
luctant,  but  passive.  As  she  followed  her  mother, 
she  looked  back  frequently,  and  called  out — 

"Grandpa,  come !" 

"  Poor  child !"  said  Mr.  0 ,  in  a  voice  of 

tender  regret.  "  Accursed  villain  !"  he  added,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  manner  and  tone.  "  You  shall 
yet  suffer  for  this" — and  he  clenched  his  hand,  and 
ground  his  teeth  in  a  paroxysm  of  anger. 

"  Much  depends,  my  dear  sir,"  I  said  to  him,  "on 
your  controlling  yourself.  Do  not  let  your  daughter 
see  that  you  are  excited,  for  she  will  attribute  all  to 
fear." 

"  Am  I  a  stock  or  a  stone,  doctor  ?  Is  it  possible 
for  me  to  look  on  and  be  calm  ?  Do  you  suppose  I 
can  mark,  day  by  day,  the  pale  face  of  my  child 
growing  paler,  the  light  in  her  eye  fading,  the  tone 
of  her  voice  growing  sadder  and  sadder,  and  not 
feel  ?  Look  at  her,  doctor  !  Do  you  see  no  change 
since  your  eyes  last  rested  upon  her  ?  Is  she  the 


THE   BROKEN   HEAKT.  81 


same  ?  I  believe  her  heart  is  already  broken.  Ah, 
sir  !  This  is  all  hard  to  bear  !" 

I  felt  that  it  must  be.  I  had  already  noticed  the 
change  to  which  he  referred — a  change  that  indi 
cated  the  rapid  progress  of  a  malady  for  which  I 
had  no  remedy. 

We  followed  Mrs.  Ruffin  into  the  house.  As  we 
entered  from  the  lawn,  she  went  up  stairs  with  her 
child,  who  called  out  earnestly : 

"  Grandpa,  come  up  !  do  come,  grandpa." 

"  Go,  my  dear  sir,  at  once.  Do  not  make  any 
ceremony  with  me,"  said  I.  Mr.  0 — —  took  me 
at  my  word,  and  followed  his  daughter  and  her  child 
up  to  her  chamber. 

I  felt  troubled  at  the  appearance  of  things.  Poor 
Mrs.  Ruffin  had  changed  more  than  I  had  dreamed. 

Mr.  0 had  truly  described  her  appearance ;  she 

looked  like  one  whose  heart  was  breaking.  Her 
face  was  almost  colourless,  and  painful  to  look  upon 
— it  was  so  very  sad. 

I  remained  alone  for  nearly  the  space  of  half  an 
hour.  Then  both  Mrs.  Ruffin  and  her  father  joined 
me.  Little  Ella  was  asleep.  Few  and  brief  were 
the  sentences  that  were  uttered  by  any  of  us,  until 
tea  was  announced.  At  the  table  a  light,  rambling 

conversation  sprung  up  between  Mr.  0 and 

myself,  and  relieved  the  sense  of  oppression  under 
which  we  all  laboured.  As  soon  as  we  arose  from 
the  table,  Mrs.  Ruffin  retired  to  join  her  child. 

"Don't  you  see  a  great  change,  doctor?"  said 
Mr.  0 ,  as  soon  as  we  were  alone. 

"Your  daughter  certainly  has  changed  since  I 


82  THE   BROKEN   HEART. 


last  saw  her,"  I  replied.  "  But,  living  as  she  has 
lived,  is  a  change  to  be  wondered  at  ?" 

"No,  doctor,  it  is  not,"  he  replied,  bitterly. 
"  But  the  necessity  for  living  thus  is  what  drives  me 
almost  mad.  I  feel  myself  growing  more  and  more 
desperate  every  day.  No  consequences,  it  seems 
to  me,  can  be  more  dreadful  than  those  already 
existing.  There  must  come  a  change,  and  that 
speedily." 

As  best  I  could,  did  I  soothe  this  state  of  excite 
ment  ;  but  I  had  little  or  nothing  to  say  in  regard 
to  the  daughter's  physical  or  mental  condition  that 
was  at  all  favourable.  I  did  not  see  her  again  that 
night.  On  the  next  morning  we  met  early  at  the 
breakfast-table.  The  child  was  still  asleep.  I  tried 
to  draw  Mrs.  Ruffin  out  into  a  conversation  on  some 
general  topic ;  but  this  I  could  not  do.  Her  mind 
dwelt  upon  only  one  subject,  and  could  not  be  in 
terested  in  any  other.  After  breakfast,  Mr.  0 

and  myself  started  for  the  city. 

"  Do  you  believe  Laura  would  survive  the  removal 
of  her  child  from  her?"  he  asked  me,  as  we  seated 
ourselves  in  his  carriage. 

"I  certainly  do  not,"  I  could  but  reply. 

"Do  you  believe  she  could  bear  its  production  in 
court,  even  if  she  accompanied  it?"  he  added. 

"  To  attempt  to  bring  it  into  court  would  certainly 
destroy  either  her  reason  or  her  life,"  I  said. 

"  If  she  were  your  child,  would  you  permit  a  thing 
to  be  done  that  would  produce  one  or  both  of  these 
direful  consequences?" 

"  Not  if  I  could  prevent  it." 

"No — nor  would  any  father." 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  83 


"  I  trust — nay,  I  am  sure,  the  order  of  yesterday 
be  withdrawn,  so  soon  as  I  make  a  statement 
of  Mrs.  Ruffin's  condition. 

"It  may  be — I  am  not  sanguine.  But  even  if  it 
is,  the  matter  is  by  no  means  settled.  In  less  than 
a  week,  the  decision  of  the  court  may  be  adverse." 

"Do  not  anticipate  the  worst,  Mr.  0 ." 

"  Ruffin  has  the  law  on  his  side." 

"And  his  wife  humanity." 

"  A  feeble  hope  that.  What  has  humanity  to  do 
in  a  case  of  law." 

"  The  judges  are  men." 

"But  without  human  feeling." 

"I  believe  differently.  Two  upon  the  bench  I 
know  to  be  men  of  the  better  sort — men  who  will 
lean  to  the  side  of  humanity,  and  let  their  decision 
be  governed  by  it  as  far  as  is  possible." 

0 shook  his  head.  "I  have  no  faith  in 

men,"  he  gloomily  answered.  "I  have  lived  too 
long  in  the  world." 

"  I  have  lived  some  years  in  the  world,  also,"  I 
said,  "  and  I  have  some  faith  in  men.  Man's  better 
feelings  are  not  all  perverted." 

0 still  shook  his  head,  and  seemed  disposed 

to  be  silent  and  indulge  his  own  reflections.  See 
ing  this,  I  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  and  was 
silent  also. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  entered  the  court-room.  It  was 
already  well  filled.  The  case  had  been  called  on 
the  previous  day,  and  this  fact,  with  the  order  that 
immediately  followed,  to  produce  the  child  in  court, 
had  sped  quickly  through  the  circle  of  the  unhappy 
mother's  friends  and  their  acquaintances.  Ladies  of 


THE   BROKEN  HEART. 


the  first  families,  who  had  never  before  seen  the  inside 
of  a  court-room,  now  filled  every  bench  that  could 
be  had,  or  stood  in  the  open  spaces,  anxiously  wait 
ing  for  the  proceedings  to  begin.  The  first  person 
upon  whom  my  eyes  rested,  as  I  entered  the  room, 
was  Charles  Ruffin.  He  sat  by  the  side  of  his  coun 
sel,  unabashed,  although  every  eye  was  upon  him, 
and  almost  every  heart  execrating  him.  He  looked 

steadily  at  Mr.  0 ,  who  came  in  with  me,  his 

eyes  not  once  sinking  beneath  the  withering  scowl 
that  settled  upon  the  father's  brow. 

In  the  course  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  the  pro 
ceedings  commenced.  The  first  thing  was  a  repeti 
tion  of  the  order  of  the  court  to  produce  the  child. 

All  eyes  turned  toward  Mr.  0 ;  there  was  a 

breathless  pause.  The  counsel  for  the  defence  here 
stated  that  he  wished  to  produce  the  testimony  of 
the  physician,  who  had  attended  Mrs.  Ruffin,  as  to 
her  state  of  health,  and  the  certain  effect  that  would 
be  produced  if  the  order  of  the  court  were  carried 
out.  I  was  then  called  upon  to  give  the  proposed 
testimony. 

In  performing  this  duty,  I  strove  to  present  as 
vivid  a  picture  as  possible  of  the  unhappy  state  of 
the  mother's  mind.  I  described  all  I  had  seen  in 
the  strongest  colours,  and  concluded  by  saying,  that 
as  a  physician,  I  believed,  solemnly,  that  if  the 
order  of  the  court  were  executed,  it  would  instantly 
destroy  the  mother's  life. 

I  do  not  think  there  was  more  than  two  with  un- 
moistened  eyes  in  the  room,  when  I  left  the  stand — 
those  two  were  Ruffin  and  his  counsel ;  the  first  was 
unmoved,  because  malignant  passions  sustained  him 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  85 


—the  latter  because  he  heard  all  that  was  related 
as  an  opposing  counsel;  his  thoughts  kept  all  emo 
tions  quiescent.  Even  the  judges  were  disturbed, 
and  had  great  difficulty  to  rally  themselves. 

The  counsel  for  the  defence  was  about  rising  to 
enforce  the  evidence  I  had  given,  when  he  was  re 
quested  by  the  judges  to  defer  what  he  was  going 
to  say  for  a  few  minutes.  A  brief  consultation  was 
held  upon  the  bench,  and  then  one  of  the  associate 
judges  declared  the  order  of  the  preceding  day  re 
scinded.  A  murmur  of  satisfaction  ran  through  the 

crowded  room  ;  Mr.  0 was  overpowered .  with 

emotion.  He  felt  what  he  had  not  felt  before,  that 
there  was  a  leaning  of  the  court  toward  the  side  of 
humanity. 

A  few  minutes  after  the  court  had  set  aside  the 
order  of  the  previous  day,  I  turned  my  eyes  to  that 
part  of  the  room  where  I  had  seen  Charles  Ruffin 
seated  by  the  side  of  his  counsel.  The  lawyer  was 
there,  but  Ruffin  I  could  nowhere  see.  A  suspicion 
flashed  across  my  mind. 

"Did  you  see  Ruffin  go  out?"  I  whispered  to 
Mr.  0 

Either  my  words,  or  manner,  caused  him  to  turn 
pale. 

"No,"  he  replied,  glancing  hurriedly  around. 
"Has  he  gone  out?" 

"I  do  not  see  him  anywhere  in  the  room.  He 
must  have  left  it." 

"  Where  can  he  have  gone  ?  Why  has  he  left  so 
abruptly  at  this  particular  moment?" 

"I  cannot,  certainly,  tell,"  I  said. 

"  I  must  go  home  immediately,  and  you  must  go 
8 


86  THE    BROKEN   HEART. 

with  me,  doctor ;"  and  Mr.  0 turned  and  moved 

away  as  he  spoke. 

"  My  patients  will  need  attention.  I  have  already 
been  away  from  them  too  long,"  I  replied. 

"  You  must  go  with  me,  doctor.  A  case  of  life 
and  death  rules  over  all  others.  Come  !" 

I  felt  that  I  dared  not  refuse  to  go.  Vague  sus 
picions  crossed  my  mind.  I  followed  Mr.  0 

out  and  hurried  by  his  side  to  the  stables  where  he 
kept  his  horses  at  livery. 

"  Put  Barney  and  Tom  into  my  light  wagon  as 

quickly  as  possible,"  said  Mr.  0 ,  "and  see 

well  to  the  harness  !" 

The  vehicle  was  soon  ready.  Mr.  0 took  the 

reins,  and  spoke  to  the  horses,  large,  strong  animals, 
and  fleet  of  foot.  They  dashed  ahead  at  a  noble 
speed.  I  do  not  think  we  were  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  in  going  a  distance  of  ten  miles.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken  during  the  whole  ride ;  and  neither  of 
us  knew  what  was  in  the  mind  of  the  other  except 
by  conjecture.  The  house  in  which  Mrs.  Ruffin  had 
sought  to  hide  herself  from  the  search  of  her  cruel 
persecutor,  was  situated  a  short  distance  from  the 
main  road,  and  could  be  seen  from  a  point  in  the 
approach,  nearly  two  miles  away.  From  this  point 
the  road  descended  in  a  straight  line,  into  a  long 
valley,  and  then  rose  by  a  gradual  ascent  upon  a 
high  ridge  opposite.  As  we  commenced  descending 
into  this  valley,  we  noticed  a  man  riding  at  a  swift 
pace  up  the  hill,  directly  in  front  of  us.  My  heart 
gave  a  sudden  bound  as  my  eyes  rested  upon  him. 
Were  my  suspicions  indeed  too  true  ?  The  horse 
man  was  only  visible  for  two  or  three  minutes,  and 


THE   BROKEN   HEART.  87 


then  disappeared  just  at  the  point  where  a  road  led 
off  to  the  house  in  which  Mrs.  Ruffin  lived. 

An  exclamation  of  alarm  escaped  the  lips  of  Mr. 

0 .     His  whip  was  applied  to  the  horses  with  a 

smarting  energy  that  caused  them  nearly  to  double 
their  rapid  pace.  Down  the  hill  we  dashed  at  a 
furious  rate,  and  up  the  one  opposite  with  scarcely 
a  perceptible  diminution  of  speed.  In  a  little  while 
we  were  in  sight  of  the  house.  There  was  a  horse 

standing  at  the  gate.     Mr.  0 applied  the  whip 

still  more  vigorously — and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were 
there ;  as  we  sprung  from  the  wagon,  our  ears  were 
pierced  by  one  of  the  most  heart-rending,  despair 
ing  cries  that  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  hear.  It 
chilled  the  blood  in  my  veins,  and  caused  a  cold 
shudder  to  run  over  my  whole  body.  Before  we 
could  reach  the  door,  a  man  (it  was  Ruffin  himself) 
emerged  from  the  house,  bearing  little  Ella  in  his 
arms.  Our  presence,  so  unexpected,  confused  him. 
for  a  moment ;  before  he  could  recover  himself,  the 
sharp  crack  of  a  pistol  rang  upon  the  air,  and  he 
fell  backward  upon  the  ground.  Ere  the  child  he  held 
in  his  arms  struck  the  earth,  she  was  snatched  away 
by  the  grandfather,  who  rushed  into  the  house,  and 
up  to  his  daughter's  chamber,  in  order  to  restore 
her  treasure  to  her  arms.  He  was  too  late  !  The 
mother's  heart  was  broken !  He  found  her  upon 
the  floor,  to  all  appearances  dead.  She  never  spoke 
again.  Life  rallied  feebly  after  a  few  hours,  but 
gradually  declined  from  that  time,  until  the  vital 
spark  went  out  entirely.  She  recovered  her  per 
ceptions  far  enough  to  recognise  her  child,  over 
whom 'she  wept  as  if  her  eyes  were  a  fountain  of 


88  THE   BROKEN  HEART. 

tears.  She  died,  clasping  the  sweet  young  creature 
in  her  arms. 

When  I  saw  Ruffin  fall,  I  hurried  to  him,  and 
found  the  blood  flowing  freely  from  his  side.  A 
servant,  whom  the  report  of  the  pistol  brought  to 
the  door,  assisted  me  to  take  him  into  the  house. 
He  was  insensible. 

On  removing  his  clothes  and  examining  the  wound, 
I  found  that  the  injury  was  not  at  all  serious.  The 
ball  had  struck  one  of  his  ribs,  on  the  right  side, 
fracturing  it,  and  then  glanced  upward,  tearing 
away  the  thin  covering  of  flesh,  and  lodging  against 
the  clavicle.  It  was  easily  extracted.  While 
engaged  in  doing  this,  I  was  summoned  to  attend 
Mrs.  Ruffin.  I  obeyed  this  summons  immediately, 
and  found  her  in  the  state  I  have  described.  Per 
ceiving  that  her  condition  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
medicine,  I  retired  as  quickly  as  possible  to  attend 
to  the  wounded  man  below.  By  the  time  I  had 
completed  all  the  -  required  dressings  he  recovered 
his  senses.  As  soon  as  he  fully  comprehended  where 
he  was,  and  the  circumstances  under  which  he  was 
placed,  he  rose  up  from  the  sofa  upon  which  he  was 
lying,  staggered  toward  the  door,  and,  regardless 
of  all  I  could  say,  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  off. 

When  these  facts  became  known,  on  the  follow 
ing  day,  to  the  court,  all  proceedings  in  the  case 
were  stopped.  But  it  was  too  late — at  least  too 
late  for  the  heart-broken  mother.  She  could  no 
more  be  affected  by  human  agencies.  She  had  suf 
fered  her  last  pang.  Her  fear,  and  sorrow,  and 
pain  were  at  an  end  for  ever. 

Charles  Ruffin  left  Baltimore  immediately  aftei 


THE  LONE   OLD   MAN.  89 


her  death.  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  He  may 
yet  be  living.  If  so,  wherever  he  is,  he  most  bear 
about  him  a  moral  cancer  that  is  eating  daily  and 
hourly  into  his  heart.  I  would  not  have  his  con 
sciousness  for  millions  of  worlds. 


THE   LONE  OLD  MAN. 

PASSING  a  few  days  in  the  village  of  P ,  my 

attention  was  attracted  by  the  air  of  neglect  appa 
rent  in  and  around  a  tastefully  built  cottage,  that 
seemed  once  to  have  been  the  pride  and  pleasure  of 
its  owner.  Choice  roses  and  fragrant  honey 
suckles  clambered  up  the  white  columns  of  the 
porch,  prodigal  of  sweetness ;  but  the  vigorous 
shoots  of  the  one,  and  the  long,  twining  branches 
of  the  other,  swayed  in  the  air,  or  drooped  toward 
the  ground,  vainly  seeking  for  support.  Evidently, 
not  for  months  had  the  pruning-knife  or  training 
hand  keen  busy  there.  Near  by  the  entrance-gate, 
stoo*.  two  cone-like  cedars,  tall  and  cleanly  cut — 
but  dead ;  their  brown,  needle-shaped  leaves  shiver 
ing  down  under  the  touch  of  every  passing  breeze, 
and  covering  the  verdureless  ground  beneath.  Grasa 
was  springing  up  in  all  the  pleasant  walks,  and  the 
untrimmed  box  borders  were  ragged  and  neglected. 
Vine  trellises  had  broken  pannels  here  and  there ; 
all  over  the  garden  were  seen  weeds  and  tangled 
8* 


90  THE  LONE   OLD   MAN. 

undergrowth.  Only  a  single  shutter  in  front  of  the 
cottage  was  unfastened,  and  ih&t  stood  always  open, 
early  or  late.  Twice  I  had  gone  by  without  seeing 
any  evidence  of  life  about  the  neglected  dwelling ; 
but  in  passing  the  third  time,  I  observed  a  white- 
haired  old  man  walking,  with  his  hands  behind  him 
and  his  eyes  upon  the  ground,  backward  and  for 
ward,  slowly,  in  one  of  the  grass-grown  walks. 
There  was  something  in  his  appearance  that  was 
inexpressibly  sad.  I  looked  at  him  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  kept  on ;  but  so  fixed  was  his 
image  in  my  mind,  in  that  brief  period,  that  the 
vivid  impression  still  remains. 

P ,  numbering  one  thousand  inhabitants,  all 

told,  had  three  taverns,  or  places  of  "  Entertainment 
for  Man  and  Beast,"  and  twelve  shops  for  the  retail 
of  liquor.  These  last  were  all  kept  by  Irishmen  and 
Germans.  At  one  of  the  taverns — the  best  in  the 
place,  and  that  isn't  saying  much  in  its  favour — I 
was  staying.  The  bar  was  well  furnished  with  bad 
liquors,  and  the  bar-room  never  free  from  idlers  and 
tavern-loungers,  mostly  belonging  to  the  village,  as 
could  readily  be  inferred  from  the  tenor  of  their 
conversation.  I  did  not  fail  to  remark,  that  scarcely 
one  of  these  persons  spoke  half  a  dozen  words  with 
out  an  oath  or  profane  expression ;  and  I  also  noted 
the  fact,  that  they  were  never  so  animated  in  con 
versation  as  when  referring  to  something  obscene, 
vile,  or  cruel.  At  temperance  and  virtue  they  scouted ; 
and  even  went  so  far  as  to  allege  scandals  against 
a  clergyman  in  the  village,  whom  I  knew  to  be  one 
of  the  purest  of  men.  Worst  of  all  was  the  presence 
of  two  or  three  lads  in  the  bar-room,  who  listened 


THE   LONE   OLD   MAN.  91 


to  the  corrupt  conversation  eagerly,  and  drank  in 
all  that  was  said  with  too  evident  pleasure. 

"  Who  lives  in  the  brown  cottage  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  street,  on  this  side  ?"  I  asked  of  the  land 
lord. 

"  Judge  Williams,"  he  answered,  coldly,  as  he 
turned  away. 

'"Who  is  Judge  Williams?"  I  inquired,  as  soon 
as  I  got  the  landlord's  ear  again. 

"  He's  one  of  our  judges,"  was  curtly  replied,  and 
again  he  turned  from  me. 

This  only  piqued  my  curiosity. 

"  Do  you  know  Judge  Williams  ?"  I  asked  of  a 
rough-looking  man  whom  I  had  observed  lounging 
about  the  tavern  ever  since  my  arrival  there,  and 
who  had  just  turned  from  the  bar,  where  he  had 
been  drinking. 

"  I  ought  to  know  him — curse  his  picture !" 
answered  the  man,  frowning. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  moments,  evidently  to 
see  whether  I  meant  to  insult  him  by  the  question, 
and  then  turned,  muttering  something  that  I  could 
not  make  out,  and  left  the  bar-room. 

"No  good  blood  in  him  for  Judge  Williams,"  said 
a  man  who  had  overheard  my  question. 

"Why  not  ?"  was  my  natural  inquiry. 

"  The  judge  gave  him  a  year  in  the  State  prison, 
for  biting  off  his  brother's  ear  in  a  drunken  quarrel." 

"  Ah  !  that  explains  it.  But  what  of  Judge  Wil 
liams?  There's  something  wrong  about  him,  is 
there  not?" 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  As  he  was 
about  replying,  some  one  called  him.  He  left  me. 


92 


THE   LONE   OLD   MAN. 


Just  then  a  boy  came  in  and  scattered  half  a 
dozen  small  printed  handbills  through  the  bar. 

"What  are  these?"  gruffly  asked  the  landlord. 

*'  There's  to  be  a  Maine  Law  meeting  at  the 
Lyceum  Hall  to-night,"  replied  the  boy,  looking 
sideways  at  the  landlord  as  he  spoke.  "  Won't  you 
come?  Judge  Williams  is  going  to  speak." 

There  was  impertinence  as  well  humour  in  the 
boy's  manner.  The  landlord,  hot  with  uncontrolla 
ble  anger,  on  the  instant  uttered  a  wicked  impreca 
tion,  and  then  hurled  an  empty  glass  at  his  head. 
The  missile  passed  him  within  an  inch,  and  striking 
the  wall,  was  shattered  into  a  hundred  fragments. 
As  the  now  frightened  lad  scampered  away,  some 
of  the  bar-room  inmates  laughed,  some  looked  grave, 
and  one  or  two  rebuked  the  passionate  man  for  an 
act  which  might  have  resulted  in  murder. 

"  Give  me  them  bills,"  said  the  landlord,  coming 
hastily  from  behind  his  bar.  Gathering  up  as 
many  of  the  printed  slips  of  paper  as  he  could  get 
his  hands  upon,  he  tore  them  into  shreds,  with  vio 
lent  gestures  and  oaths,  and  then  threw  them  into 
the  street.  Two  or  three  remained  in  possession  of 
those  who,  like  myself,  declined  yielding  them  up 
to  the  incensed  individual  who  considered  himself 
particularly  insulted  by  their  intrusion  on  his  pre 
mises. 

Next  came,  as  a  very  natural  result,  a  discussion, 
among  the  bar-room  loungers,  of  the  Maine  Law 
question.  The  landlord  was  too  much  excited  to 
think  clearly  or  talk  coherently ;  so  he  only  used 
profane  expletives.  Some  ridiculed  the  whole  move 
ment  as  preposterous :  some  cursed  the  leaders,  and 


THE   LONE   OLD   MAI*. 


some  made  themselves  merry  at  the  expense  of  the 
cold-water  men.  Nearly  all  present  had  indulged 
their  particular  humour  on  the  subject,  and  conversa 
tion  was  beginning  to  flag,  when  a  young  man  whom 
I  had  noticed  as  sadly  fallen,  yet  retaining  traces 
of  better  condition  and  higher  intelligence  than  any 
around  him,  arose  by  a  table  at  which  he  had  been 
half  crouching,  and  extending  one  hand  in  an  ener 
getic  manner,  said — 

"  You  may  all  talk  as  you  please,  but  I  see  no 
hope  but  in  the  Maine  Law." 

"  There,  now,  Dick  Thomas !  do  you  just  hush 
up.  Nobody  asked  for  your  opinion,  and  nobody 
wants  it." 

The  man  turned  quickly  to  the  landlord,  who  had 
thus  roughly  interrupted  him,  and  after  fixing  his 
eyes  sharply  upon  him  for  some  moments,  retorted — 

"  You  may  rob  us  of  reason  and  virtue ;  but  of 
free  speech — never  !  You've  all  had  your  say,  and 
now  I'm  going  to  have  mine.  If  you  don't  wish  to 
listen,  you  can  retire." 

"  You've  got  to  retire,  young  man !"  exclaimed 
the  landlord,  his  face  again  hot  with  anger ;  and  as 
he  said  this,  he  came  hastily  from  behind  the  bar, 
and  advancing  toward  the  object  of  his  wrath, 
assumed  a  menacing  attitude.  "  Go,  this  instant, 
or  I  will  pitch  you  head  foremost  into  the  street." 

"  I  wish  you  would  put  a  hand  on  me,"  said  the 
other,  in  a  hissing  voice.  There  was  murder  in  his 
eye,  and  an  iron  resolution  in  his  tone.  For 
several  moments  the  two  men  glared  savagely  at 
each  other;  then  the  landlord  retired  behind  the 
bar. 


94  THE    LONE    OLD   MAN. 


"  Be  content  with  your  place  there,  and  your 
work  there,  old  fellow  !"  said  the  young  man,  with 
a  bitter  sneer,  "but  don't  attempt  what  is  beyond 
your  ability."  Then  turning  to  the  company,  he 
repeated  the  words  spoken  a  little  while  before, 
and  in  the  earnest,  impressive  manner  at  first 
apparent. 

"You  may  all  talk  as  you  please,"  he  said,  "but 
I  see  no  hope  but  in  the  Maine  Law.  And  there 
is  no  other  hope  for  such  as  me.  Ten  times  have 
I  taken  the  pledge,  and  God  knows  it  was  taken  in 
all  sincerity!  But  with  vitiated  appetite,  and 
temptation  ever  in  my  path,  how  was  I  to  stand  ? 
Keep  liquor  out  of  my  sight,  and  I  can  do  well 
enough ;  but  with  a  tavern  or  groggery  at  every 
corner,  the  case  is  hopeless.  I  voted  for  the  Maine 
Law  at  the  last  election,  and  if  I  live  to  visit  the 
polls  again,  my  ballot  shall  be  cast  on  the  side  of 
virtue,  order,  and  sobriety.  What  a  cursed  infatua 
tion — what  a  blinding  folly  this  drinking  is  !  Are 
you,  or  you,  or  you,  any  the  better  for  it !"  turning 
quickly  from  one  to  another,  as  he  uttered  these 
words.  "  I  will  not  pause  for  your  answer,  '  No' — 
your  faces  give  a  feeble  negative;  but  your  whole 
appearance  responds,  trumpet-tongued,  'No — no — 
no.'  Ah,  my  friends !  I  know  how  it  is  with  myself, 
and  I  know  how  it  is  with  you.  While  this  man 
trap  is  ever  in  the  way,  our  feet  must  stumble. 
What  hope  for  us  is  here  ?  None — none.  There 
sits  the  great  lazy  spider,  his  web  nicely  spread 
abroad,  and  we,  the  poor  victims,  cannot  go  by 
without  getting  hopelessly  entangled.  All  over  the 
land  are  these  spiders  and  their  webs,  and  there  is 


THE   LONE    OLD    MAN. 


no  bosom  to  sweep  them  aside.  Give  us  the  Maine 
Law,  and  we  have  a  broom  that  will  do  the  work 
effectually.  I  go  for  this  law,  gentlemen !  And  I 
am  going  to  the  meeting  to-night.  Judge  Williams 
is  to  speak.  Poor  man  !  He  will  speak  in  vain,  for 
all  the  good  speaking  will  do  him ;  but  if  he  doesn't 
stir  all  hearts  to  their  lowest  depths,  call  Dick 
Thomas  a  fool !" 

"You'll  give  'em  a  speech,  too,  won't  you?"  said 
the  landlord,  in  impotent  contempt. 

"  If  you're  there,  I  will,"  retorted  Thomas.  "  I 
couldn't  have  a  better  subject  than  the  spider  and 
the  fly." 

A  shout  of  applause  from  the  rude  inmates  of  the 
,bar-room  answered  this  cutting  speech;  and  under 
the  governing  impulse  of  the  moment,  it  was  voted 
to  attend  the  Maine  Law  meeting  in  a  body. 

"  You'd  better  drink  all  round  to  bolster  up  good 
resolution,"  said  the  landlord,  forcing  a  laugh.  He 
had  sense  enough  to  see  the  folly  of  quarrelling  with 
his  customers,  and  so  repressed  his  irritation. 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  quickly  answered  one  of  the 
company ;  and  in  a  moment  the  fickle  crew  were  at 
the  counter,  and  the  landlord  as  busy  as  he  could 
be  in  mixing  his  tempting  poisons  for  their  lips. 
I  turned  off,  sad  at  the  sight,  and  left  the  bar 
room. 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  evening,  I  was  at  Lyceum 
Hall.  The  room  was  nearly  filled  on  my  arrival ; 
but  I  managed  to  get  a  place  near  the  speaker's 
stand. 

"  Judge  Williams  is  to  speak,"  I  heard  whispered 
behind  me.  This  seemed  the  leading  attraction  of 


96  THE   LONE   OLD   MAN. 


the  evening.  "Who  Judge  Williams  was,  or  what 
the  particular  interest  attaching  to  him,  I  had  not 
yet  learned.  That  a  blight  was  on  him  in  his  old 
age,  was  plain  ;  but  where  and  what  the  blight  was, 
I  could  infer  but  vaguely. 

The  meeting  was  organized  in  due  form,  and 
resolutions  offered  approving  the  Maine  Law,  and 
calling  upon  the  legislature  of  the  state  to  enact 
one  similar  in  its  provisions.  Then  came  a  pause 
of  expectation.  The  old  man  I  had  thought  to  see 
on  the  stand  was  not  there.  I  looked  around  the 
room,  but  failed  to  recognise  him.  Others  seemed 
in  like  expectation  with  myself.  There  was  now  a 
movement  near  the  door.  I  turned  with  the  rest  of 
the  audience,  and  saw  the  pale,  thin,  intelligent 
face  of  the  old  man  I  had  noticed  at  the  brown 
cottage. 

"There  is  Judge  Williams,"  I  heard  passing  from 
lip  to  lip.  He  moved  slowly  along  the  aisle  until 
he  reached  the  platform,  which  he  ascended,  and 
took  a  chair  near  the  president  of  the  meeting. 

"  The  secretary  will  read  the  resolutions  again," 
said  the  chairman. 

The  resolutions  were  accordingly  read.  A  brief 
silence  followed,  and  then  Judge  Williams  arose  in 
a  slow,  dignified  manner.  A  little  while  he  stood ; 
his  fine  eyes,  that  seemed  to  light  up  his  whole  face, 
wandering  over  the  audience.  All  was  as  still  as  if 
there  had  not  been  a  living  soul  in  the  room. 

"My  friends," — his  voice  was  low,  and  trembled 
slightly, — "I  meet  you  this  evening  in  public 
assemblage,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months.  I 
may  never  meet  you  again.  A  lonely  old  man, 


THE   LONE   OLD   MAN.  07 

with  all  hope  in  life  gone,  I  am  a  lingerer  here  only 
for  a  little  while.  Soon,  the  places  that  have  seen 
me  will  see  me  no  more.  I  shall  pass  the  bourn 
from  which  no  traveller  returns — and  pass  it,  I  feel, 
right  early.  I  have  been  among  you  for  many 
years ;  and  in  all  my  public  life  I  have,  in  the  fear 
of  God,  sought  to  judge  rightly  between  my  fellow 
men.  To  err  is  human — therefore  I  have  not  been 
free  from  error ;  but  the  merit  of  a  good  intention  I 
must,  in  justice,  claim. 

"  My  friends,  look  at  me  as  I  stand  before  you 
to-night,"  and  he  advanced  a  few  paces  on  the  plat 
form.  "  This  head  is  whiter  than  it  was  a  year 
ago — this  hand  not  so  steady — this  poor  body  less 
firm  and  erect.  I  am  a  shattered  wreck  on  the  sea 
of  life ;  the  last  frail  vessel  of  a  goodly  fleet  that 
went  down  in  the  pitiless  tempest.  How  vainly  did 
I  search  for  a  harbour,  when  I  saw  the  storm 
gathering ;  but  there  was  none  in  which  we  might 
ride  in  safety. 

"  Fellow  citizens  !" — his  form  was  now  more  erect, 
and  his  tones  firmer  and  deeper — "  turn  your  thoughts 
back  for  twenty  years,  such  of  you  as  can  recall 
events  for  so  long  a  period.  Did  I  not  then  say  to 
you  that  licensed  drinking-houses  would  be  a  curse 
to  our  beautiful  village?  Did  I  not  then  urge, 
warn,  implore  you  on  the  subject,  and  with  all  the 
little  eloquence  I  possessed  ?  Did  I  not  then  declare 
it  as  my  belief  that,  as  a  body  of  citizens,  united  in 
corporate  form  to  secure  our  mutual  well-being,  it 
was  our  duty  to  guard  the  weak  and  the  youthful 
from  the  fascination  of  drink,  by  prohibiting  the 
sale  of  intoxicating  liquors  in  our  village  ?  We  had 
9 


98  THE   LONE   OLD   MAN. 

as  much  the  right  to  do  this,  as  the  right  to  restrict 
or  prohibit  the  sale  of  poison.  It  was  a  measure  of 
self-protection  as  legitimate  as  any  other.  Who 
was  to  be  wronged  by  it  ?  The  man  who,  too  idle 
to  work,  sought  to  live  by  corrupting  his  neighbours, 
and  sowing  broadcast  the  seeds  of  vice,  crime,  depra 
vity,  and  eternal  death  ?  No ;  not  even  he  was  to 
suffer  wrong !  Better  far,  even  for  him,  that  he 
should  be  compelled  to  do  service  in  society  in  order 
to  get  his  bread.  In  every  view,  therefore,  the 
restriction  I  then  urged  was  the  right  one.  But 
you,  my  fellow-citizens,  called  my  reasoning  falla 
cious,  and  me  visionary  or  tyrannical. 

"  Well,  in  the  twenty  years  which  have  passed 
since  I  first  advocated  an  entire  restriction  of  the 
Bale  here,  I  have  seen  more  than  twenty  of  our  most 
promising  young  men — some  of  their  gray-haired 
fathers  are  here  to-night — thrust  down  into  drunk 
ard's  graves.  Why,  my  friends," — he  spoke  now 
with  a  sudden,  indignant  energy, — "  one  of  those 
young  men,  with  his  intellect  undimmed,  would  have 
been  worth  a  thousand  of  the  miserable  wretches 
who  destroyed  them,  and  for  whose  maintenance 
you  so  generously  provided  the  trade  of  dram-sell 
ing.  How  my  heart  swells  and  throbs,  and  almost 
suffocates  me  with  indignation  at  the  thought.  But, 
ah  !  how  impotently  !" 

Mournful,  very  low  and  mournful  were  these  last 
words. 

"  Well,  my  friends,"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause ; 
"  to  protect  and  support  the  idle,  vicious  dram-seller, 
you  sacrificed  the  rising  hope  of  your  village.  Unto 
this  bloody  Moloch  you  brought  your  sons.  For 


• 

THE    LONE    OLD   MAN.  99 

twenty  years  I  have  sat  on  the  Bench ;  and  I  will 
say  now,  before  God  and  man,  that  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  every  crime  and  outrage  which  has  taken 
place  during  that  period,  in  this  county,  was  trace 
able,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  use  of  intoxicating 
drinks. 

"  And  the  history  of  crime  all  over  our  land  gives 
but  a  parallel  testimony.  And  yet  the  rumseller  is 
protected  in  his  accursed  traffic — is  regularly  licensed 
to  destroy  the  bodies  and  souls  of  your  neighbours 
and  children ;  and  if  we,  all  whose  hopes  in  life  are 
blasted  by  this  evil,  lift  our  voices  against  it,  and 
ask  for  its  suppression  by  the  firm  hand  of  the  law, 
we  are  branded  with  coai'se  epithets,  and  called 
visionary,  and  fanatical  disturbers  of  settled  order. 

"  Show  me  any  good  that  has  been  done  in  P 

by  dram-drinking.  Show  me  a  man  made  more 
virtuous  and  thrifty — a  better  husband,  father,  and 
citizen.  Bring  him  here  to-night,  and  let  us  look 
upon  him.  Where  is  he  ?  Alas !  he  is  not  to  be 
found.  You  cannot  show  the  good,  but  the  evil. 
God  help  us  !  It  is  everywhere  ! 

"  My  friends,  you  all  know  that  I  and  mine  have 
been  cursed  with  this  curse ;  but  how  deeply,  few 
have  imagined.  Let  me  lift  the  curtain  for  you  to 
night — lift  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  let  it  fall  for 
ever.  Three  sons  grew  up  to  manhood.  True- 
hearted,  clear-minded  they  were,  and  full  of  promise 
for  the  future.  One  studied  law,  one  medicine,  and 
the  other  chose  the  life  of  a  farmer.  I  used  no 
intoxicating  drinks  in  my  house,  and  yet  these 
three  goodly  sons  sleep  in  drunkards'  graves. 
Beyond  my  own  house  I  could  not  protect  them. 


100  THE  LONE   OLD   MAN. 

Temptation  was  on  every  hand;  temptation  sanc 
tioned  by  law,  and  made  respectable  through  the 
blind  favour  of  men  whose  position  gave  influence  to 
their  precept  and  example.  Like  other  young  men, 
they  had  their  weaknesses  ;  like  other  young  men, 
they  thought  lightly  of  warning  ;  like  other  young 
men,  they  moved  pleasantly  along  in  the  smooth 
current  of  the  world,  all  unheeding  the  danger  by 
which  they  were  surrounded,  until  resistance  to  the 
downward  course  was  hopeless. 

"  Three  years  ago,  the  eldest  was  thrust  from  one 
of  your  taverns,  at  a  late  hour  of  the  night,  and 
falling  on  the  pavement,  received  a  wound  on  the 
head  that  produced  insanity.  He  is  since  dead. 
The  second,  after  six  months'  abstinence,  was  enticed 
into  the  same  den  of  evil,  by  some  wicked  men  who 
knew  his  weakness.  He  fell,  never  to  rise  again. 
Unhappy  young  man  !  How  hard  he  struggled  with 
his  appetite !  Oh !  how  bitterly  I  have  seen  him 
weep — how  earnestly  I  have  heard  him  pray,  in  the 
lonely  night-watch,  for  strength ;  yet  he  died  whili' 
the  mad  fever  of  intoxication  was  in  his  brain. 

"  The  third,  my  youngest  son — his  mother's  idol 
— he,  too,  went  the  same  way.  Of  all  my  sons,  he 
alone  married.  The  purest,  fondest,  sweetest  of 
women  was  the  dear  child  he  brought  away  fron 
her  warm  nest  at  home,  to  grace  and  brighten  om 
household.  We  had  no  daughter  of  our  own;  and 
so,  all  the  love  in  our  hearts  a  daughter  would  have 
called  forth,  was  lavished  upon  this  beautiful  dove. 
I  need  not  describe  her  to  you,  for  you  have  see.: 
her,  and  many  of  you  loved  her.  But  she  is  at 
rest." 


THE  LONE   OLD   MAN.  101 

*  ** 

The  old  man's  voice  choked.  For  a  little  while 
he  stood  silent,  unable,  from  irrepressible  emotion, 
to  proceed.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  husky  whisper — 

"  She  is  at  rest  now.  Let  me,  as  calmly  as  I  am 
able,  tell  you  how  she  passed  away.  It  was  not 
peacefully  and  sweetly  as  an  infant  sinks  to  sleep 
in  its  mother's  arms.  Ah,  no  ! — no !  Her  death 
was  violent !" 

What  a  thrill  passed  through  the  assembly ! 
White  faces  bent  forward  eagerly,  and  breaths  were 
held  in  appalled  expectation. 

"  She  was  murdered  by  her  husband  !" 

The  old  man  sunk  into  a  chair,  while  a  groan  rose 
from  the  assembly. 

"No  good  end  is  to  be  gained  by  concealment," 
resumed  Judge  Williams,  as  he  arose  and  in  a  firmer 
voice  went  on — "  if  the  revelation  spur  you  to  action, 
all  I  desire  is  accomplished.  My  son  came  home 
one  night,  less  than  a  year  ago,  intoxicated,  after  a 
longer  period  of  sobriety  than  usual.  He  had  neVer 
treated  his  wife  with  personal  unkindness.  If  she 
remonstrated  with  him,  he  showed  no  irritation ; 
and  often,  through  her  influence,  would  make  tempo 
rary  efforts  at  reformation.  He  had  passed  to  her 
room  only  a  short  time,  when  I  heard  a  momentary 
shuffling  of  feet,  and  a  smothered  exclamation. 
There  was  something  in  the  sound  that  caused  me 
to  start  up  and  listen.  But  nothing  more  was  heard 
for  at  least  five  minutes,  when  I  was  aroused  by  the 
falling  of  a  heavy  body  in  their  chamber.  I  repaired 
thither  on  the  instant.  Sight  of  horror !  My  son 
lay  dying,  in  his  own  blood,  on  the  floor ;  the  fatal 
razor  with  which  the  death  deed  was  done,  clutched 
9* 


102  THE   LONE   OLD   MAN. 

in  his  hand.  You  all  remember  this  dreadful 
tragedy.  But  there  was  something  more  dreadful 
still,  of  which  you  have  never  been  told.  Ere  turn 
ing  his  hand  upon  himself,  my  son  smothered  with 
pillows  the " 

The  old  man  staggered  back,  and  sat  down 
again. 

"  God  help  me !"  he  resumed,  after  a  moment  or 
two.  "  I  cannot  say  more.  We  buried  them  side 
by  side ;  but  we  were  broken-hearted.  A  few  weeks 
more,  and  my  poor  wife  followed  them,  leaving  me  a 
lonely  old  man,  all  the  green  branches  of  the  tree 
withered,  and  the  root  nearly  sapless  and  dead. 

"What  need  is  there  for  me  to  say  more  ?"  he 
added,  after  a  pause.  "  I  have  shown  you  the  bit 
ter  fruits  of  the  traffic.  Look  at  them.  Reason  of 
them  among  yourselves,  and  make  your  own  deci 
sion.  If  you  continue  to  sow  the  seed  you  are  now 
sowing,  you  must  expect  no  better  harvest.  On  me 
the  evil  has  done  its  worst.  But  for  the  sake  of 
your  children  and  neighbours,  let  me  implore  you 
to  turn  aside  from  your  beautiful  village  this  tor 
rent  of  vice  that  is  yearly  sweeping  its  scores  to 
destruction." 

There  were  few  dry  eyes  in  the  assembly  when 
Judge  Williams  sat  down ;  and  it  hardly  need  be 
told  here,  that  the  resolutions  were  passed  by  accla 
mation.  At  my  next  visit  to  P ,  the  brown  cot 
tage  had  found  another  owner,  and  the  lonely  old 
man  was  sleeping  in  the  village  graveyard. 


A  tfEW  EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


Two  brothers  met  after  an  absence  of  many 
years.  One  of  them  had  remained  at  home,  or, 
rather,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  early  home. 
The  other  sought,  in  a  distant  country,  the  wealth 
he  saw  no  opportunity  to  acquire  in  the  pleasant 
village  where  his  eyes  first  opened  upon  the  light. 
But  the  beauty  of  mountain,  valley,  lake,  and  breezy 
woodland  had  indelibly  impressed  his  spirit,  and 
now,  disappointed  with  the  world — though  the 
world  had  given  him  riches — he  had  returned, 
under  the  vain  delusion  that  here  he  would  find 
that  tranquillity  and  contentment  which,  thus  far 
in  life,  he  had  failed  to  secure.  We  say  delusion — 
for,  like  other  men,  he  carried  in  his  bosom  the  ele 
ments  of  his  dissatisfaction,  which  no  mere  change 
of  place  could  remove.  It  was  innocent  childhood 
that  made  him  happy  in  that  old  home  to  which  he 
now  returned ;  but  childhood  had  passed  forever. 
He  came  back,  not  with  the  perceptions  and  capa 
bilities  of  a  child,  but  with  the  unsatisfied  yearnings 
of  a  man.  Ah  !  how  changed  was  all ;  changed, 
and  yet  the  same.  There  was  the  landscape,  in  all 
its  varied  attraction  of  wood  and  river  and  moun 
tain,  but  to  him  its  beauty  had  depart|flv  He  wan 
dered  away  to  the  old  haunts,  but  their  spell  was 
gone.  He  could  have  wept  in  the  bitterness  of  his 

disappointment. 

103 


104  A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE 


"  You  look  troubled,  Edward,"  remarked  his  bro 
ther,  on  the  day  succeeding  his  return. 

"  Do  I^William  ?"  he  said,  with  a  forced  smile. 
"  It  should  not  be  so,  for  I  have  no  trouble  to  weigh 
down  my  spirits." 

Yet,  even  while  he  spoke,  the  feeble  light  faded 
from  his  countenance. 

How  strongly  contrasted  were  the  two  brothers ! 
The  one  having  but  little  of  this  world's  goods ;  the 
other  possessing  large  wealth.  The  one  bearing  on 
his  brow  an  ever-cheerful  expression ;  the  other  a 
look  of  self-weariness  and  discontent. 

In  a  few  days,  Edward  announced  his  intention 
to  purchase  a  handsome  estate  offered  for  sale  in 
the  village,  and  remove  his  family  thither.  He  had 
been  in  many  places,  but  none  pleased  him  like  this. 
"Here,  if  anywhere  in  the  world,  he  believed  he 
would  find  that  repose  of  mind  he  had  sought  for  so 
long,  yet  vainly. 

Accordingly,  the  estate  was  purchased,  and,  in  due 

time,  Edward  J brought  his  family,  consisting 

of  his  wife  and  three  children — two  sons  and  a 
daughter — to  reside  in  the  pleasant  village  of  Glen- 
wood. 

Not  a  very  long  time  passed  before  William  J 

saw  that  his  brother  was  far  from  being  a  happy 
man.  The  cause,  to  a  close  observer  like  himself, 
was  clearly  apparent.  Edward  was  a  very  selfish 
man — and  such  men  are  always  unhappy.  While 
in  the  pursuit  of  a  desired  object,  the  mind,  from 
anticipation  and  its  own  activity,  may  be  pleasantly 
excited.  But  when  the  object  is  gained,  and  men 
tal  activity  declines,  there  succeeds  a  state  of  op- 


A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE.  105 


prcssive  disquietude.  Selfishness,  like  the  horse 
leech's  daughter,  for  ever  cries,  "  Give,  give,"  and 
for  ever  remains  unsatisfied. 

In  the  possession  of  wealth,  Edward  J fully 

believed  happiness  was  to  be  found.  In  seeking  to 
gain  wealth,  he  had  thought  little  of  the  interests 
of  others.  Not  that  he  recklessly  trampled  on  his 
neighbours'  rights,  or  wrested  from  the  weak  what 
was  lawfully  their  own.  His  mercantile  pride — 
honour  he  would  have  called  it — prevented  such 
lapses  from  integrity.  But,  as  he  moved  onward, 
with  something  like  giant  strides,  conscious  of  his 
own  strength,  he  had  no  sympathy  for  the  less  for 
tunate,  and  never  once  paused  to  lift  a  fallen  one, 
or  to  aid  a  feeble  toiler  on  the  way  of  life.  No 
generous  principles  belonged  to  the  code  of  ethics 
by  which  he  was  governed.  Benevolence  he  ac 
counted  a  weakness,  and  care  for  others'  interests 
the  folly  of  a  class,  less  to  be  commended  than  cen 
sured.  "Let  every  man  mind  his  own  business, 
and  every  man  take  care  of  himself,"  he  would 
sometimes  say.  "  Help  yourself  is  the  world's  best 
motto.  This  constant  preaching  up  of  benevolence 
and  humanity  only  makes  idlers  and  dependants." 

Edward  J fully  acted  out  his  principles. 

And  so,  for  future  enjoyment,  he  had  only  laid  up 
wealth.  In  all  his  business  life,  there  was  not  a 
single  green  spot  watered  by  the  tears  of  benevo 
lence,  or  warmed  by  the  sunshine  of  gratitude,  back 
to  which  thought  could  go,  and  find  delight  in  the 
remembrance.  All  was  a  dull,  dead  blank  of  money- 
getting,  the  recollection  of  which  gave  more  pain 
than  pleasure. 


106  A   NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


No  wonder  that,  after  the  excitement  of  removal, 
and  the  interested  state  of  mind  attendant  upon  the 
fitting  up  of  a  new  home,  the  mind  of  Edward 

J receded  again  to  its  state  of  disquietude,  or 

that  the  old  shadows  deepened  once  more  on  his 
brow. 

How  broadly  contrasted  was  the  stately  mansion 
he  occupied  with  the  humble  cottage  in  which  his 
brother  resided,  and  to  which,  in  self-weariness,  he 
often  repaired.  Yet,  so  selfishly  did  he  love  his 
own,  that  never  an  impulse  of  generosity  toward 
this  brother  stirred,  even  for  a  moment,  the  dead 
surface  of  humanity's  waters  lying  stagnant  in  his 
bosom.  If  he  thought  of  his  humble  circumstances 
at  all,  it  was  with  something  of  shame  that  one  so 
nearly  related  should  eccupy  so  low  a  position. 

One  morning,  Edward  called  upon  William  J , 

and  with  unusual  animation  said — 

"  I  have  just  made  a  valuable  discovery." 

"  Ah  !     What  is  it  ?"  inquired  his  brother. 

"  You  know  the  beautiful  side-slope  of  land  just 
beyond  my  meadow?" 

"Where  Morgan  lives?"  said  William. 

"  Yes.  There  are  some  ten  acres,  finely  situated, 
exceedingly  fertile,  and  in  a  high  state  of  cultiva 
tion." 

"Well?"  William  looked,  inquiringly,  at  his 
brother. 

"  That  piece  of  ground  belongs,  unquestionably, 
to  my  estate." 

"  What !"  The  brother  was  startled  at  this  an 
nouncement  •  for  he  saw  a  purpose  in  Edward's 


A   NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE.  107 


mind  to  claim  it  as  his  own,  if  he  could  prove  that 
the  right  referred  to  did  actually  exist. 

"  That  piece  of  ground  is  mine." 

"Why  do  you  say  sa?" 

"  It  originally  belonged  to  the  property  I  have 
purchased." 

"  I  know  it  did.  But  Morgan  bought  it  from  the 
former  owner,  more  than  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  But  never  met  his  payments,  and  never  got  a 
full  title." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

-  "  I  have  the  information  from  good  authority — 
the  best,  I  presume,  in  the  county." 
»  "From  whom  ?" 

"  Aldridge.  And  he  says  he  can  recover  it  for 
me." 

"  Did  you  purchase  it,  Edward  ?"  asked  William, 
looking  steadfastly  into  the  countenance  of  his  bro 
ther. 

"  I  purchased  Glenwood,  and  all  the  rights  and 
appurtenances  thereto  belonging,  and  this  I  find 
to  be,  legally,  a  portion  of  the  estate — and  a  valu 
able  one.  It  is  mine — and  it  has  been  one  of  my 
maxims  in  life  always  to  claim  my  own." 

An  indignant  rebuke  was  on  the  tongue  of  Wil 
liam  J ,  but  he  repressed  its  utterance,  for 

estrangement,    and   consequent   loss   of   influence, 
would  have  been  the  sure  consequence. 

"Before  taking  any  steps  in  this  matter,"  he 
said,  "look  very  minutely  into  the  history  of  the 
transaction  between  Morgan  and  the  previous  owner 
of  Glenwood,  the  late  Mr.  Erskin.  Morgan  was 
his  gardener,  and  had  laid  Mr.  Erskin  under  a  debt 


108  A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


of  gratitude,  by  saving  the  life  of  an  only  son 
the  imminent  risk  of  his  own.  As  some  return,  he 
offered  him  the  cottage  in  which  he  lived,  and  the 
ten  acres  of  ground  by  which  it  was  surrounded,  at 
a  very  moderate  valuation,  Morgan  to  pay  him 
small  sum,  agreed  upon,  every  year.  The  plac 
was  actually  worth  three  or  four  times  what  Mor 
gan  was  to  give  for  it.  Mr.  Erskin  at  first  thought 
of  transferring  it  to  him  as  a  free-will  offering,  but 
he  believed  the  benefit  would  be  really  greater,  if 
Morgan,  by  industry,  economy,  and  self-denial, 
earned  and  saved  sufficient  to  pay  what  was  askec" 
for  the  property.  At  the  end  of  a  year  the  gar 
dener  brought  the  money  due  as  the  first  instal 
ment.  Mr.  Erskin  felt  a  reluctance  to  take  it,  and, 
after  questioning  him  as  to  the  product  of  the  farm, 
finally  told  him  to  expend  the  money  in  an  improve 
ment  designated  by  himself.  Sickness,  and  bad 
crops,  during  the  next  year,  prevented  the  payment 
of  the  second  instalment.  The  third  and  fourth 
years  were  more  prosperous.  The  only  sums  paid 
to  Mr.  Erskin  were  received  by  him  during  these 
years." 

"So  I  am  informed,"  said  Edward.  "And  I 
learn,  further,  that  no  transfer  of  the'  property  was 
ever  made  in  due  legal  form.  Mr.  Erskin  died  in 
testate." 

"  He  did ;  and  his  son  came  by  heirship  into  pos 
session  of  all  his  property." 

"  And  he,  dying  a  few  years  later,  disposed  of 
the  estate  by  will." 

"Not  naming  Morgan's  farm,"  said  William, 
"which  he  fully  believed  had  been,  during  hia 


A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN  LIFE.  109 


father's  lifetime,  properly  transferred  to  the  present 
possessor." 

"A  very  serious  mistake,  as  Morgan  "will  find," 
said  Edward. 

"  You  will  not  question  his  title  to  the  property, 
Edward  ?" 

"I  assuredly  will." 

"  He  has  a  large  family.     It  is  his  all." 

"No  matter.  He  has  never  paid  for  it,  and  it  is 
not,  therefore,  his  property.  Glenwood  is  just  so 
much  the  less  valuable  by  the  abstraction  of  this 
portion,  and  I  am,  in  consequence,  the  sufferer. 
Had  he  paid  for  the  land,  as  he  had  engaged  to  do, 
the  money  would,  most  probably,  have  been  ex 
pended  in  improvements.  So,  you  see,  my  rights 
are  clear." 

"Ah,  brother!  you  cannot  find  it  in  your  heart 
to  ruin  this  worthy  man.  He  has  a  large  family, 
dependent  on  the  product  of  his  farm,  which  barely 
suffices  to  give  them  a  comfortable  living." 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  ruin  him,  William.  But  he 
has  no  right  to  my  property.  If  Morgan  wishes  to 
remain  where  he  is,  I  will  not,  for  the  present,  dis 
turb  him.  But  he  must  pay  me  an  annual  rent." 

As  mildly  as  possible,  yet  very  earnestly,  did 

William  J urge  a  different  course  of  action 

upon  his  brother ;  but  with  no  good  effect.  Legal 
measures  were  early  taken,  and  due  notice  served 
upon  Morgan,  who,  on  submitting  his  papers  to  a 
lawyer,  was  appalled  to  learn  that  they  contained  in 
formalities  and  defects,  clearly  invalidating  his  title. 
In  a  state  of  much  alarm  and  excitement,  he  called 

upon  William  J ,  and  implored  him  to  use  his 

10 


110  A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


influence  with  his  brother  to  stop  the  unrighteous 
proceeding.  William  could  not  give  him  much  en 
couragement,  though  his  heart  ached  for  the  un 
happy  man.  It  so  happened  that  Morgan  passed 
from  William  J 's  place  of  business,  as  the  bro 
ther  entered.  The  two  men  had  never  met;  and 
the  rich  owner  of  Glenwood  did  not  know,  by  sight, 
the  individual  whose  farm  he  coveted. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  he  inquired,  in  a  voice  of 
surprise. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"What  ails  him?  His  face  was  pale  as  ashes, 
and  his  eyes  wild  like  those  of  one  in  terror,  or  de 
ranged." 

"He  is  in  great  distress." 

"  From  what  cause  ?  Has  he  committed  a  crime? 
Are  the  minions  of  justice  at  his  heels  ?" 

"No.  He  is  a  man  of  blameless  life — not  as 
careful  as  he  should  have  been  in  the  management 
of  his  affairs.  Upon  a  sudden,  he  finds  himself  on 
the  brink  of  ruin.  He  put  too  much  faith  in  the 
world.  He  thought  too  well  of  his  fellow-men." 

"  A  common  fault,"  was  the  sententious  answer. 
"  But  what  of  this  man  ?  Something  in  his  face  has 
interested  me.  Can  I  aid  him  in  his  troubles  ?" 

"  Yes,  brother,  you  can  aid  him,  and  at  no  loss 
to  yourself.  No  loss,  did  I  say?  Rather  let  me 
say,  to  your  infinite  gain." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Infinite  gain !  You 
make  use  of  a  very  strong  word,  William." 

"  I  do ;  yet,  with  a  full  appreciation  of  its  mean~ 
ing.  Every  thing  gained  to  true  happiness  is  an  in 
finite  gain.  Believe  me.  there  are  few  sources  of 


A   NEW  EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE.  Ill 


human  pleasure  so  lasting  as  the  memory  of  a  good 
deed.  What  we  seek,  with  only  a  selfish  regard  to 
our  own  enjoyment,  loses  its  charm  with  possession. 
This  is  the  life-experience  of  every  one.  But  the 
benefits  we  confer  upon  others,  bless  in  a  perpetual 
remembrance  of  the  delight  we  have  created." 

Only  a  dim  perception  of  what  this  meant 
dawned  upon  the  mind  of  Edward.  Yet,  a  few 
rays  of  light  streamed  in  upon  his  moral  darkness. 

"  The  blessing  of  a  good  deed,  brother  Edward  !" 
said  William,  speaking  with  something  of  enthusiasm 
in  his  manner — "  did  you  ever  think  what  a  depth 
of  meaning  was  in  the  words  ?  Generous,  noble, 
unselfish  actions  are  like  perennial  springs,  sending 
forth  sweet  and  fertilizing  waters.  How  much  they 
lose  who,  having  the  power  to  do  good,  lack  the 
generous  impulse." 

"All  very  well,  and  very  true,  no  doubt,"  said 
the  rich  brother,  with  a  slight  air  of  impatience. 
"But  you  haven't  told  me  of  the  individual  in 
whose  case  you  desire  to  interest  me." 

"His  name  is  Morgan,"  was  answered. 

"  Morgan  !"  An  instant  change  was  visible  in 
Edward  J .  His  face  flushed;  his  brow  con 
tracted,  and  his  eyes  grew  stern. 

"Remember,  my  brother,"  said  William,  in  a 
calm,  yet  earnest  and  affectionate  voice,  "  that  God 
has  bestowed  upon  you,  of  this  world's  goods,  more 
than  sufficient  to  supply  all  your  real  wants ;  while 
to  this  poor  man  he  has  given  what  barely  suffices, 
with  care  and  labour,  to  supply  food,  raiment,  and 
an  humble  home  for  his  wife  and  little  ones.  You 
have  'flocks  and  herds' — do  not  take  his  'little 


112  A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


ewe-lamb.'  Remember  David  and  the  prophet  Na 
than." 

"  Good  morning  !"  said  Edward,  turning  off,  sud 
denly,  and  leaving  his  brother. 

What  a  conflict  in  the  rich  man's  mind  did  this 
incident  and  conversation  arouse !  The  white,  ter 
rified  face  of  poor  Morgan,  haunted  him  like  a 
spectre  ;  and  not  less  troublesome  were  the  warning 
words  and  suggestions  of  his  kinsman.  On  the 
afternoon  of  that  day  he  was  to  have  met  his  legal 
adviser,  and  given  further  instructions  for  the  pro 
secution  of  the  case  against  Morgan.  But  Aldridge 
waited  for  his  appearance  in  vain.  Evening  found 
him  restless,  unhappy,  and  in  a  very  undecided 
state  of  mind.  He  was  sitting,  moodily,  with  his 
hand  shading  the  light  from  his  face,  when  a  little 
daughter,  who  was  at  the  centre-table,  reading  in 
the  Bible,  said — 

"Oh,  papa.  Just  listen  to  this — "  And  she 
read  aloud — 

"'And  the  Lord  sent  Nathan  unto  David.  And 
he  came  unto  him,  and  said  unto  him,  There  were 
two  men  in  one  city;  the  one  rich,  and  the  other 
poor.  The  rich  man  had  exceeding  many  flocks 
and  herds ;  but  the  poor  man  had  nothing,  save 
one  little  ewe-lamb,  which  he  had  bought  and 
nourished  up;  and  it  grew  up  together  with  him 
and  with  his  children ;  it  did  eat  of  his  own  meat, 
and  drank  of  his  own  cup,  and  lay  in  his  bosom, 
and  was  unto  him  as  a  daughter.  And  there  came 
a  traveller  unto  the  rich  man,  and  he  spared  to 
take  of  his  own  flock  and  of  his  own  herd,  to  dress 
for  the  wayfaring  man  that  was  come  unto  him; 


A   NEW   EXPERIENCE    IX   LIFE.  113 

but  he  took  the  poor  man's  lamb,  and  dressed  it  for 
the  man  that  was  come  to  him.  And  David's  anger 
was  greatly  kindled  against  the  man ;  and  he  said 
to  Nathan,  As  the  Lord  liveth,  the  man  that  hath 
done  this  thing  shall  surely  die.  And  he  shall  re 
store  the  lamb  four-fold,  because  he  did  this  thing, 
and  because  he  had  no  pity.  And  Nathan  said  to 
David,  Thou  art  the  man.' 

"And  did  king  David  do  that?"  said  the  child, 
lifting  her  eyes  from  the  page — "  I  thought  him  a 
good  man  ;  but  this  was  so  wicked  !" 

The  father's  countenance  was  turned  more  into 
shadow,  and  he  answered  nothing.  The  child  wait 
ed  his  reply  for  some  moments ;  but  none  coming, 
she  bent  her  eyes  again  to  the  holy  volume,  and 
continued  reading,  but  not  aloud. 

In  a  little  while  Mr.  J arose,  and  after 

walking  the  floor  for  the  space  of  five  or  ten  mi 
nutes,  left  the  sitting-room.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
he  or  Morgan  were  most  unhappy  at  that  particular 
period  of  time. 

It  was  a  clear,  moonlight  night.  Too  much  dis 
turbed  to  bear  the  quietude  within,  the  rich  man 
walked  forth  to  find  a  more  burdening  stillness 
without.  The  silence  and  beauty  of  nature  agitated 
instead  of  calming  him.  All  around  was  in  harmony 
with  the  great  Creator,  while  the  discord  of  assault 
ed  selfishness  made  tumult  in  his  breast.  How  a 
generous  impulse  toward  Morgan,  cherished  and 
made  active,  would  have  clothed  his  spirit  with 
peace  as  a  mantle!  What  a  different  work  had 
cruel  and  exacting  selfishness  wrought ! 

As  he  walked  on,  with  no  purpose  in  his  mind, 
10* 


114  A  NEW  EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


a  man  passed  him  hurriedly.  A  glimpse  at  his 
face,  as  the  moonlight  fell  broadly  upon  it,  showed 
the  pale,  anxious,  depressed  countenance  of  poor 
Morgan.  The  sight  caused  a  low  shudder  to  go 
creeping  to  his  heart.  Nay,  more,  it  awakened  a 
feeling  of  pity  in  his  bosom.  Pity  is  but  the  hand 
maid  of  sympathy.  The  rich  man's  thought  went 
homeward  with  the  victim  of  his  cupidity — went 
home  with  him,  though  he  strove  hard  to  turn  it  in 
another  direction — while  fancy  made  pictures  of  the 
grief,  fear,  and  anxious  dread  of  the  future  that 
filled  the  hearts  of  all  in  that  humble  dwelling. 
Suddenly  he  stood  still,  and  bent  his  head  in  deep 
thought.  Then  he  started  onward  again,  but  evi 
dently  with  a  purpose  in  his  mind,  for  he  took 
long  strides,  and  bent  forward  like  a  man  eager 
to  reach  the  point  toward  which  his  steps  were 
directed.  He  was  soon  at  the  house  of  Aldridge, 
the  lawyer. 

"  I  want  a  piece  of  writing  made  out  immediate 
ly,"  said  he,  as  the  lawyer  invited  him  to  enter  his 
office. 

"  To-night?"  inquired  Aldridge. 

"Yes — to-night.     Can  you  do  it?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,  if  it  be  not  too  long." 
-"I  wish  a  quit-claim  drawn  up  in  favour  of  Mor 
gan." 

"  A  quit-claim !" 

Aldridge  might  well  be  surprised. 

"  Yes.  "Write  it  out  in  due  form ;  and  let  it  de 
scribe  accurately  the  cottage  and  ten  acres  now  in 
his  possession.  How  long  will  it  take  you?" 

"  Not  long.     Half  an  hour,  perhaps.     But,  Mr. 


A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE.  115 


J ,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  Has  Morgan  in 
demnified  you  ?" 

"No  matter  as  to  that,  Mr.  Aldridge,"  was  the 
rather  cold  reply.  "  The  quit-claim  I  wish  drawn. 
I  will  wait  for  it." 

In  a  short  time  the  paper  was  ready,  attested 
and  witnessed.  Thrusting  it  into  his  pocket,  Mr. 

J hurried  from  the  presence  of  the  lawyer. 

His  purpose  was  to  go  home.  But  now  sympathy 
for  those  he  had  made  wretched  was  awakened,  he 
could  not  bear  its  pressure  upon  his  own  feelings. 
The  dwelling  of  Morgan  was  at  no  great  distance. 
Thither  his  steps  were  directed.  A  light  shone 
through  one  of  the  windows.  As  he  drew  near, 
he  saw,  moving  slowly  against  the  wall  and  ceiling 
of  the  room,  to  and  fro,  the  shadow  of  a  man. 
Nearer  still,  and  he  could  see  all  the  inmates  of  the 
room.  By  a  table  sat  a  woman  in  an  attitude  of 
deep  dejection;  she  had  been  weeping.  A  boy 
stood  beside  her  with  his  arm  lying  on  her  neck, 
while  a  little  girl  sat  on  a  low  stool,  her  face  buried 
in  her  mother's  lap.  The  whole  picture  conveyed 
to  the  mind  of  Mr.  J an  idea  of  extreme  wretch 
edness,  and  touched  him  deeply.  A  few  moments 
only  did  he  contemplate  the  scene. 

How  suddenly  the  tableaux  changed  when  Mr. 
J entered,  and  briefly  making  known  his  er 
rand,  presented  to  Morgan  the  quit-claim  deed! 
What  joy  lit  up  every  face;  what  gratitude  found 
ardent  words;  what  blessings  were  invoked  for  him 
and  his ! 

In  a  tumult  of  pleasure  such  as  he  had  never  be 
fore  experienced,  Mr.  J hurried  from  the  pre- 


116  A  NEW   EXPERIENCE   IN   LIFE. 


sence  of  the  overjoyed  family,  and  took  his  way 
homeward.  How  light  were  his  steps !  With  what 
a  new  sensation  did  he  drink  in  the  pure  evening 
air,  that  seemed  nectar  to  his  expanding  lungs. 
How  beautiful  the  moon  looked,  smiling  down  upon 
him;  and  in  the  eye  of  every  bright  star  was  a 
sparkling  approval  of  his  manly  deed.  Never  in 
his  whole  life  had  he  done  an  act  from  which  he  de 
rived  so  exquisite  a  sense  of  pleasure.  He  had 
tasted  angel's  food. 

Calm  was  the  sleep  of  Mr.  J .  Ah !  how 

often  he  had  tossed  on  his  pillow  until  after  the 
midnight  watches.  Morning  found  him  with  a  new 
sense  of  enjoyment  in  life.  He  could  hardly  under 
stand  its  meaning.  Dimly  he  perceived  the  truth 
at  first,  but  more  and  more  clearly  as  his  brother's 
words  came  back  to  his  remembrance — "  There  are 
few  sources  of  pleasure  so  lasting  as  the  memory  of 
a  good  deed."  This  had  sounded  strange,  almost 
repulsive  to  his  ears.  Now  it  was  perceived  as  a 
beautiful  truth.  And  so  was  this — "How  much 
they  lose  who,  having  the  power  to  do  good,  lack 
the  generous  impulse." 

"How  much  have  I  lost!"  he  said  to  himself, 
with  an  involuntary  sigh.  "  Here  is  a  new  expe 
rience  in  life.  I  am  wiser  than  I  was  yesterday ; 
and  wiser,  I  trust,  to  some  good  purpose." 

And  did  this  prove  to  be  the  case?  Profited 
this  rich  man  by  the  discovery  that  sources  of  hap 
piness  were  within  his  reach  undreamed  of  before  ? 
He  did;  and  yet  how  often  came  the  dark  clouds 
of  selfishness  over  his  mind,  obscuring  his  nobler 
perceptions!  But  a  good  seed  was  planted,  and 


A  NEW   EXPERIENCE  IN  LIFE.  117 


there  was  one  in  the  village  of  Glenwood,  who 
loved  him  and  mankind  too  well  to  let  the  soil  in 
which  it  was  cast  remain  uncultured.  From  that 
little  seed  a  plant  sprung  up,  growing  in  time  to  a 
goodly  tree,  and  spreading  its  branches  forth  in  the 
air  of  heaven.  Beneath  its  shadow  many,  weary 
on  the  rugged  journey  of  life,  found  rest  and  shel 
ter. 

Edward  J ,  from  a  narrow-minded,  unhappy 

self-seeker,  became  a  man  of  generous  impulses,  dis 
pensing  blessings  with  a  liberal  hand,  that  ever 
came  back  to  him  with  a  double  portion  of  delight. 

The  charm  of  Glenwood  was  restored.  It  looked 
to  him  even  more  beautiful  than  in  childhood.  At 
this  he  sometimes  wondered — for,  at  his  first  return, 
after  long  years  of  absence,  the  old  beauty  had  de 
parted.  But  the  reader  finds  here  no  mystery; 
nor  was  it  any  to  him,  when  he  contrasted  his  state 
of  mind  with  that  existing,  when,  tired  of  himself 
and  the  world,  he  came  back  to  his  native  village, 
seeking  for  rest,  yet  finding  none,  until  he  sought 
it  in  self-abnegation  and  good  deeds  to  his  fellow- 
men. 


SUPPER  was  not  ready  when  Abraham  Munday 
lifted  the  latch  of  his  humble  dwelling,  at  the  close 
of  a  long,  weary  summer  day.  He  was  not  greatly 
disappointed,  for  it  often  so  happened.  The  table 
was  on  the  floor,  partly  set,  and  the  kettle  over  the 
fire. 

"There  it  is  again!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Munday, 
fretfully.  "  Home  from  work,  and  no  supper  ready. 
The  baby  has  been  so  cross ! — hardly  out  of  my 
arms  the  whole  afternoon.  I'm  glad  you've  come, 
though.  Here,  take  him  while  I  fly  around  and 
get  things  on  the  table." 

Mr.  Munday  held  out  his  arms  for  the  little  one, 
who  sprung  into  them  with  a  baby  shout. 

Mrs.  Munday  did  fly  around  in  good  earnest.  A 
few  pieces  of  light  wood  thrown  on  the  fire  soon 
made  the  kettle  sing,  and  steam,  and  bubble.  In  a 
wonderfully  short  space  of  time  all  was  ready,  and 
the  little  family,  consisting  of  husband,  wife,  and 
three  children,  were  gathered  around  the  table. 
To  mother's  arms  baby  was  transferred,  and  she 
had  the  no  very  easy  task  of  pouring  out  her  hus 
band's  tea,  preparing  cups  of  milk  and  water  for 
the  two  older  of  the  little  ones,  and  restraining  the 
baby,  who  was  grappling  first  the  sugar-bowl,  then 
the  milk-pitcher,  and  next  the  tea-pot. 
118 


THE   LITTLE    MAID    OF   ALL  WORK.  119 

"There!"  suddenly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mundaj. 
And  two  quick  slaps  on  baby's  hand  were  heard. 
Baby,  of  course,  answered  promptly  with  a  wild 
scream.  But  what  had  baby  done  ?  Look  into  the 
tea-tray, — the  whole  surface  is  covered  with  milk. 
His  busy,  fluttering  hands  have  overturned  the 
pitcher. 

Poor  Mrs.  Munday  lost  her  temper  completely. 

"It's  no  use  to  attempt  eating  -with  this  child," 
said  she,  pushing  her  chair  back  from  the  table. 
"I  never  have  any  good  of  my  meals." 

Mr.  Munday's  appetite  failed  him  at  once.  He 
continued  to  eat,  however,  but  more  hurriedly. 
Soon  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  also,  and  rising  up, 
said  cheerfully — 

"There,  I'm  done,  Lotty.  Give  me  the  baby, 
while  you  eat  your  supper." 

And  he  took  the  sobbing  child  from  the  arms  of 
its  mother.  Tossing  it  up,  and  speaking  to  it  in  a 
lively,  affectionate  tone  of  voice,  he  soon  restored 
pleasure  to  the  heart,  and  smiles  to  the  countenance 
of  the  little  one. 

Mrs.  Munday  felt  rebuked  for  her  impatience. 
She  often  suffered  from  these  silent  rebukes.  And 
yet,  the  trials  of  temper  she  daily  endured  were 
very  great.  No  relish  for  food  was  left.  The 
wants  of  the  two  children  were  attended  to,  and 
then,  while  Mr.  Munday  still  held  the  baby,  she 
busied  herself  in  clearing  off  the  table,  washing  up 
the  tea  things,  and  putting  the  room  in  order. 

An  hour  later.  Baby  was  asleep,  and  the  other 
children  with  him  in  the  land  of  dreams.  Mrs. 
Munday  was  busy  sewing  on  a  little  frock,  and  Mr. 


120  THE   LITTLE   MAID    OF   ALL   WOKK. 


Munday  sat  with  his  face  turned  from  the  light, 
lost  in  a  brown  study. 

"Lotty,"  said  the  latter,  waking  up  from  his 
revery,  and  speaking  with  considerable  emphasis — 
"it's  no  use  for  you  to  keep  going  on  in  this  way 
any  longer.  You  are  wearing  yourself  out.  And 
what's  more,  there's  no  comfort  at  home  for  any 
body.  You  must  get  a  woman  to  help  about  the 
house." 

"We  can't  afford  it,  Abraham,"  was  Mrs.  Mun- 
day's  calm,  but  decided  answer. 

"We  must  afford  it,  Lotty.  You  are  killing  your 
self/' 

"A  woman  will  cost  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a 
week,  and  her  board  at  least  as  much  more.  We 
can't  spare  that  sum — and  you  only  getting  ten 
dollars  a  week." 

The  argument  was  unanswerable.  Mr.  Munday 
sighed  and  was  silent.  Again  his  face  was  turned 
from  the  light;  and  again  the  hand  of  his  wife 
plied  quickly  the  glittering  needle. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we  might  do,"  said  Mrs.  Mun 
day,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  ten  minutes. 

"Well?"  her  husband  turned  toward  her  and  as 
sumed  a  listening  attitude. 

"We  might  take  a  small  girl  to  help  in  the 
family.  It  would  only  cost  us  her  victuals  and 
clothes." 

Mr.  Munday  mused  for  some  time  before  answer 
ing.  He  didn't  just  like  the  proposition. 

"Any  thing,"  he  at  length  said,  "to  lighten 
your  labour.  But  can  you  get  one  ?" 

"  I  think  so.     Do  you  remember  poor  Mrs.  Bar- 


THE   LITTLE   MAID   OF   ALL  WORK.  121 


row,  who  died  last  month?  She  left  a  little  girl 
about  eleven  years  old,  with  no  one  to  see  after  her 
but  an  old  aunt,  who  I've  heard  isn't  very  kind  to 
the  child.  No  doubt,  she  would  be  glad  to  get  her 
into  a  good  place.  It  would  be  very  easy  for  her 

v  v 

here.  She  could  hold  the  baby,  or  rock  it  in  the 
cradle  while  I  was  at  work  about  the  house — and 
do  a  great  many  little  things  for  me,  that  would 
lighten  my  task  wonderfully.  It's  the  very  thing, 
husband" — added  Mrs.  Munday  with  animation, 
"and  if  you  agree,  I  will  run  over  and  see  Mrs. 
Gooch,  her  aunt,  in  the  morning  before  you  go  to 
work." 

"How  old  did  you  say  she  was?"  inquired  Mr. 
Munday. 

"She  was  eleven  in  the  spring,  I  believe." 

"Our  Aggy  is  between  nine  and  ten."  Some 
thing  like  a  sigh  followed  the  words,  for  the  thought 
of  having  his  little  Aggy  turned  out,  motherless, 
among  strangers,  to  do  drudgery  and  task-work, 
forced  itself  upon  his  mind. 

"True.  But  a  year  or  so  makes  a  great  differ 
ence.  Besides,  Anna  Barrow  is  an  uncommonly 
smart  girl  for  her  age." 

Mr.  Munday  sighed  again. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  being  silent  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  "you  can  do  as  you  think  best.  But  it 
does  seem  hard  to  make  a  servant  of  a  mere  child 
like  that." 

"You  call  the  position  in  which  she  will  be  by 
too  harsh  a  name,"  said  Mrs.  Munday.  "I  can 
make  her  very  useful  without  overtasking  her. 
And  then,  you  know,  as  she  has  got  to  earn  her 


122  THE  LITTLE   MAID   OF   ALL  WORK. 

own  living,  she  cannot  acquire  habits  of  industry 
too  soon." 

Mrs.  Munday  was  now  quite  in  earnest  about  the 
matter,  so  much  so  that  her  husband  made  no  fur 
ther  objection.  On  the  next  morning,  she  called 
round  to  see  Mrs.  Gooch,  the  aunt  of  Anna  Barrow. 
The  offer  to  take  the  little  girl  was  accepted  at 
once. 

When  Mr.  Munday  came  home  at  dinner  time, 
he  found  the  meal  all  ready  and  awaiting  his  ap 
pearance.  Mrs.  Munday  looked  cheerful  and  ani 
mated.  In  the  corner  of  the  room  sat  a  slender 
little  girl,  not  very  much  larger  than  Aggy,  with 
the  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
timidly  to  the  face  of  Mr.  Munday,  who  gave  her  a 
kind  look. 

"Poor,  motherless  child !"    Such  was  his  thought. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  assistance  she  is  to 
me,"  whispered  Mrs.  Munday  to  her  husband,  lean 
ing  over  to  him,  as  they  sat  at  the  table.  "And 
the  baby  seems  so  fond  of  her." 

Mr.  Munday  said  nothing,  but  before  his  mind 
was  distinctly  pictured  his  own  little  girl,  a  servant 
in  the  home  of  a  stranger.  On  his  return  from 
work  in  the  evening,  every  thing  wore  a  like  im 
proved  appearance.  Supper  was  ready,  and  Mrs. 
Munday  had  nothing  of  the  worried  look  so  appa 
rent  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  introduction  to  the 
reader.  Every  thing  wore  an  improved  appearance, 
did  we  say  ?  No,  not  every  thing.  There  was  a 
change  in  the  little  orphan  girl ;  and  Mr.  Munday 
saw,  at  a  glance,  that  the  change,  so  pleasant  to 
contemplate,  had  been  made  at  her  expense.  The 


THE   LITTLE   MAID    OF   ALL   WOKK.  123 


tidy  look,  noticed  at  dinner  time,  was  gone.  Her 
clothes  were  soiled  and  tumbled ;  her  hair  had  lost 
its  even,  glossy  appearance,  and  her  manner  show 
ed  extreme  weariness  of  body  and  mind.  She  was 
holding  the  baby.  None  saw  the  tears  that  crept 
over  her  cheeks,  as  the  family  gathered  around  the 
tea-table,  and,  forgetful  of  her,  enjoyed  their  even 
ing  meal. 

Supper  over,  Mrs.  Munday  took  the  baby  and 
undressed  it,  while  Anna  sat  down  to  eat  her  por 
tion  of  food.  Four  times,  ere  this  was  accomplished, 
did  Mrs.  Munday  send  her  up  to  her  chamber  for 
something  wanted  either  for  herself  or  the  child. 

"You  must  learn  to  eat  quick,  Anna,"  said  Mrs. 
Munday,  ere  the  little  girl,  in  consequence  of  these 
interruptions,  was  half  through  her  supper.  Anna 
looked  frightened  and  confused,  pushed  back  her 
chair,  and  stood  gazing  inquiringly  at  the  face  of 
her  mistress. 

"Are  you  done?"  the  latter  coldly  asked. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  was  timidly  answered. 

"Very  well.  Now  I  want  you  to  clear  off  the 
table.  Gather  up  all  the  things  and  take  them  out 
into  the  kitchen.  Then  shake  the  tablecloth,  set 
the  table  back,  and  sweep  up  the  room." 

Mr.  Munday  looked  at  his  wife,  but  said  no 
thing. 

"Shall  I  help  Anna,  mother?"  inquired  Aggy. 

"No,"  was  rather  sharply  answered.  "Have 
you  studied  your  lesson?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Go  about  that,  then;  it  will  be  as  much  as  you 
can  do  before  bedtime." 


124  THE  LITTLE   MAID   OF  ALL  WOBK. 

Mrs.  Munday  undressed  her  baby  with  consider 
able  more  deliberation  of  manner  than  usual,  ob 
serving  all  the  while  the  proceedings  of  Anna,  and 
every  now  and  then  giving  her  a  word  of  instruction. 
She  felt  very  comfortable,  as  she  finally  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  with  her  little  one  asleep  in  her 
arms.  By  this  time  Anna  was  in  the  kitchen, 
where,  according  to  instructions,  she  was  washing 
up  the  tea-things.  While  thus  engaged,  to  the  best 
of  her  small  ability,  a  cup  slipped  from  her  hand 
and  was  broken  on  the  floor.  The  sound  startled 
Mrs.  Munday  from  her  agreeable  state  of  mind  and 
body. 

"What's  that?"  she  cried. 

"A  cup,  ma'am,"  was  the  trembling  answer. 

"You're  a  careless  little  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Mun 
day,  rather  severely.  The  baby  was  now  taken  up 
stairs  and  laid  in  bed.  After  this,  Mrs.  Munday 
went  to  the  kitchen  to  see  how  her  little  maid  of  all 
work  was  getting  on  with  the  supper  dishes.  Not 
altogether  to  her  satisfaction,  it  must  be  owned. 

"You  will  have  to  do  these  all  over  again,"  she 
said — not  kindly  and  encouragingly,  but  with  some 
thing  captious  and  authoritative  in  her  manner. 
"  Throw  out  that  water  from  the  dish-pan  and  get 
some  more." 

Anna  obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Munday  seated  herself 
by  the  kitchen  table,  to  observe  her  movements, 
and  correct  them  when  wrong. 

"Not  that  way — Here,  let  me  show  you" — 
"  Stop !  I  said  it  must  be  done  in  this  way" — "  Here 
— that  is  right" — "Don't  set  the  dishes  down  so 


THE   LITTLE   MAID   OF  ALL  WORK.  125 


hard;  you'll  break  them  —  they're  not  made  of 
iron." 

These,  and  words  of  like  tenor,  were  addressed 
to  the  child,  who,  anxious  to  do  right,  yet  so  con 
fused  as  often  to  misapprehend  what  was  said  to 
her,  managed  at  length  to  complete  her  task. 

"Now  sweep  up  the  kitchen,  and  put  things  to 
rights.  When  you're  done,  come  in  to  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Munday,  who  now  retired  to  the  little  sitting- 
room,  where  her  husband  was  glancing  over  the 
daily  paper,  and  Aggy  engaged  in  studying  her 
lesson.  On  entering,  she  remarked, 

"It's  more  trouble  to  teach  a  girl  like  this  than 
to  do  it  yourself." 

Mr.  Munday  said  nothing;  but  he  had  his  own 
thoughts. 

"Mother,  I'm  sleepy;  I  want  to  go  to  bed," 
said  Fanny,  younger  by  two  or  three  years  than 


"I  don't  want  to  go  yet;  and  besides,  I  haven't 
got  my  lesson,"  said  the  older  sister. 

"Wait  until  Anna  is  done  in  the  kitchen,  and 
she  will  go  up  and  stay  with  you.  Anna!"  Mrs. 
Munday  called  to  her,  "make  haste!  I  want  you  to 
put  Fanny  to  bed." 

In  a  few  minutes  Anna  appeared,  and  as  direct 
ed,  went  up  stairs  with  Fanny. 

"  She  looks  tired.  Hadn't  you  better  tell  her  to 
go  to  bed  also,"  suggested  Mr.  Munday. 

"To  bed!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Munday  in  a  voice  of 
surprise  —  "  I've  got  something  for  her  to  do  besides 

going  to  bed." 

11* 


126  THE  LITTLE   MAID   OF  ALL  WORK. 


Mr.  Munday  resumed  the  reading  of  his  paper 
and  said  no  more.  Fanny  was  soon  asleep. 

"Can't  Anna  go  up  with  me,  now?  I'm  afraid 
to  go  alone,"  said  Aggy,  as  the  little  girl  came 
down  from  the  chamber. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  you  must  go  to  sleep 
quickly.  I've  got  something  for  Anna  to  do." 

Mr.  Munday  sighed,  and  moved  himself  uneasily 
in  his  chair.  In  half  an  hour  Anna  came  down, — 
Aggy  was  just  asleep.  As  she  made  her  appear 
ance,  the  baby  awoke  and  cried  out. 

"Run  up  and  hush  the  baby  to  sleep  before  he 
gets  wide  awake,"  said  Mrs.  Munday. 

The  weary  child  went  as  directed.  In  a  little 
while  the  low  murmur  of  her  voice  was  heard,  as 
she  attempted  to  quiet  the  babe  by  singing  a  nursery 
ditty.  How  often  had  her  mother's  voice  soothed 
her  to  sleep  by  the  selfsame  words  and  melody ! 
The  babe  stopped  crying;  and  soon  all  was  quiet  in 
the  chamber.  Nearly  half  an  hour  passed,  during 
which  Mrs.  Munday  was  occupied  in  sewing. 

"I  do  believe  that  girl  has  fallen  asleep,"  said 
she  at  length,  letting  her  work  drop  in  her  lap,  and 
assuming  a  listening  attitude. . 

"Anna !"  she  called.     But  there  was  no  answer. 

"Anna!"  The  only  returning  sound  was  the 
echo  of  her  own  voice. 

Mrs.  Munday  started  up,  and  ascended  to  her 
chamber.  Mr.  Munday  was  by  her  side,  as  she 
entered  the  room.  Sure  enough ;  Anna  had  fallen 
asleep,  leaning  over  the  bed  where  the  infant  lay. 

"Poor,  motherless  child!"  said  Mr.  Munday,  in  a 
voice  of  tender  compassion  that  reached  the  heart 


THE   LITTLE   MAID   OF   ALL  WORK.  127 


of  his  wife,  and  awakened  there  some  womanly 
emotions. 

"Poor  thing!  I  suppose  she  is  tired  out,"  said 
the  latter.  "She'd  better  go  to  bed."  So  she 
awakened  her,  and  told  her  to  go  up  into  the  gar 
ret,  where  a  bed  had  been  made  for  her  on  the 
floor.  Thither  the  child  proceeded,  and  there  wept 
herself  again  to  sleep.  In  her  dream  that  night, 
she  was  with  her  mother,  in  her  own  pleasant  home, 
and  she  was  still  dreaming  of  her  mother  and  her 
home,  when  she  was  awakened  by  the  sharp  voice 
of  Mrs.  Munday,  and  told  to  get  up  quickly  and 
come  down,  as  it  was  broad  daylight. 

"You  must  kindle  the  fire  and  get  the  kettle  on 
in  a  jiffy."  Such  was  the  order  she  received  on 
passing  the  door  of  Mrs.  Munday's  room. 

We  will  not  describe,  particularly,  the  trials  of 
this  day  for  our  poor  little  maid  of  all  work.  They 
were  very  severe,  for  Mrs.  Munday  was  a  hard  mis 
tress.  She  had  taken  Anna  as  a  help ;  though  not 
with  the  purpose  of  overworking  or  oppressing  her. 
But  now  that  she  had  some  one  to  lighten  her  bur 
dens  and  "take  steps  for  her,"  the  temptation  to 
consult  her  own  ease  was  very  great.  Less  wearied 
than  in  days  past,  because  relieved  of  scores  of  lit 
tle  matters  about  the  house,  the  aggregate  of  which 
had  worn  her  down,  she  was  lifted  somewhat  above 
an  appreciating  sympathy  for  the  child,  who,  in 
thus  relieving  her,  was  herself  heavily  overtasked. 
Instead  of  merely  holding  the  baby  for  Mrs.  Mun 
day,  when  it  was  awake  and  would  not  lie  in  its  cra 
dle,  and  doing  for  her  the  "little  odd  turns,"  at  first 
contemplated,  so  as  to  enable  her  the  better  to  get 


128  THE  LITTLE   MAID   OF  ALL   WOKK. 


through  the  work  of  the  family,  the  former  at  once 
began  to  play  the  lady,  and  to  require  of  Anna  not 
only  the  performance  of  a  great  deal  of  household 
labour,  but  to  wait  on  her  in  many  instances  where 
the  service  was  almost  superfluous. 

When  Mr.  Munday  came  home  at  supper  time, 
he  found  his  wife  with  a  book  in  her  hand.  The 
table  was  set,  the  fire  burning  cheerfully,  and  the 
hearth  swept  up.  The  baby  was  asleep  in  its  cra 
dle,  and,  as  Mrs.  Munday  read,  she  now  and  then 
touched  gently  with  her  foot  the  rocker.  This  he 
observed  through  the  window,  without  himself  being 
seen.  He  then  glanced  into  the  kitchen.  The 
kettle  had  been  taken  from  the  fire — the  tea-pot 
was  on  the  hearth,  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  plate 
of  toast,  and  on  the  other  by  a  dish  containing  some 
meat  left  from  dinner  which  had  been  warmed  over. 
These  would  have  quickened  his  keen  appetite, 
but  for  another  vision.  On  her  knees,  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  room,  was  Anna,  slowly,  and  evidently 
in  a  state  of  exhaustion,  scrubbing  the  floor.  Her 
face,  which  happened  to  be  turned  toward  him, 
looked  worn  and  pale,  and  he  saw  at  a  glance  her 
red  eyes,  and  the  tears  upon  her  cheeks.  While 
he  yet  gazed  upon  her,  she  paused  in  her  work, 
straightened  her  little  form  with  a  wearied  effort, 
and  clasping  both  hands  across  her  forehead,  lifted 
her  wet  eyes  upward.  There  was  no  motion  of  her 
wan  lips,  but  Mr.  Munday  knew  that  her  heart,  in 
its  young  sorrow,  was  raised  to  heaven.  At  thia 
moment,  the  kitchen  door  was  opened,  and  Mr 
Munday  saw  his  wife  enter. 

"Eye-service !"  said  she,  severely,  as   she   saw 


THE   LITTLE   MAID   OF  ALL  WORK.  129 

the  position  of  Anna.  "I  don't  like  this.  Not 
half  over  the  floor  yet !  Why,  what  have  you  been 
doing?" 

The  startled  child  bent  quickly  to  her  weary 
task,  and  scrubbed  with  a  new  energy  imparted  by 
fear.  Mr.  Munday  turned,  heart  sick,  from  the 
window,  and  entered  their  little  sitting-room  as  his 
wife  came  in  from  the  kitchen.  She  met  him  with 
a  pleasant  smile,  but  he  was  grave  and  silent. 

"Don't  you  feel  well?"  she  inquired,  with  a  look 
of  concern. 

"Not  very  well,"  he  answered,  evasively. 

"Have  you  felt  bad  all  day?" 

"Yes.     But  I  am  heart  sick  now." 

"Heart  sick  !     What  has  happened,  Abraham?" 

Mrs.  Munday  looked  slightly  alarmed. 

"One  whom  I  thought  full  of  human-kindness 
has  been  oppressive,  and  even  cruel." 

"Abraham  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Perhaps  my  eyes  deceived  me!"  he  answered — 
"perhaps  it  was  a  dream.  But  I  saw  a  sight  just 
now  to  make  the  tears  flow." 

And  as  Mr.  Munday  spoke,  he  took  his  wife  by 
the  arm  and  led  her  out  through  the  back  door. 

"Look!"  said  he — "there  is  a  poor,  motherless 
child,  scarcely  a  year  older  than  our  Aggy!" 

Anna  had  dropped  her  brush  again,  and  her 
pale  face  and  tearful  eyes  were  once  more  uplifted. 
Was  it  only  a  delusion  of  fancy,  or  did  Mrs.  Mun 
day  really  see  the  form  of  Mrs.  Barrow,  stooping 
over  her  suffering  child,  as  if  striving  to  clasp  her 
in  her  shadowy  arms? 

For  a  few  moments,  the  whole  mind  of  Mrs.  Mun- 


130  THE    LITTLE    MAID    OF   ALL   WORK. 

day  was  in  a  whirl  of  excitement.  Then  stepping 
back  from  the  side  of  her  husband,  she  glided 
through  the  open  door,  and  was  in  the  kitchen  ere 
Anna  had  time  to  change  her  position.  Frightened 
at  being  found  idle  again,  the  poor  child  caught 
eagerly  at  the  brush  which  lay  on  the  floor.  In 
doing  so  she  missed  her  grasp,  and  weak  and  trem 
bling  from  exhaustion,  fell  forward,  where  she  lay 
motionless.  When  Mrs.  Munday  endeavoured  to 
raise  her  up,  she  found  her  insensible. 

"Poor — poor  child!"  said  Mr.  Munday,  tenderly, 
his  voice  quivering  with  emotion,  as  he  lifted  her  in 
his  arms.  He  bore  her  up  to  the  children's  cham 
ber,  and  laid  her  on  the  bed. 

"Not  here,"  said  Mrs.  Munday.  "Up  in  her 
own  room." 

"  She  is  one  of  God's  children,  and  as  precious 
in  his  sight  as  ours" — almost  sobbed  the  husband, 
yet  with  a  rebuking  sternness  in  his  voice.  "She 
shall  lie  here!" 

Mrs.  Munday  was  not  naturally  a  cruel  woman ; 
but  she  loved  her  own  selfishly;  and  the  degree  in 
which  this  is  done,  is  the  measure  of  disregard 
toward  others.  She  forgot,  in  her  desire  for  ser 
vice,  that  her  little  servant  was  but  a  poor,  mother 
less  child,  thrust  out  from  the  parent  nest,  with  all 
the  tender  longings  of  a  child  for  love,  and  all  its 
weaknesses  and  want  of  experience.  She  failed  to 
remember,  that  in  the  sight  of  God  all  children  are 
equally  precious. 

But  the  scales  fell  from  her  eyes.  She  was  re 
buked,  humbled,  and  repentant. 

"Anna  must  go  back  to  her  aunt,"  said  Mr. 


LOOK   AT   THE   BRIGHT   SIDE.  131 


Munday,  after  the  child  had  recovered  from  her 
brief  fainting  fit,  and  calmness  was  once  more  re 
stored  to  the  excited  household. 

"She  must  remain,"  was  the  subdued,  but  firm 
answer.  "I  have  dealt  cruelly  with  her.  Let  me 
have  opportunity  to  repair  the  wrong  she  has  suffer 
ed.  I  will  try  to  think  of  her  as  my  own  child.  If 
I  fail  in  that,  the  consciousness  of  her  mother's  pre 
sence  will  save  me  from  my  first  error." 

And  Anna  did  remain — continuing  to  be  Mrs. 
Munday's  little  maid  of  all  work.  But  her  tasks, 
though  varied,  were  light.  She  was  never  again 
overburdened,  but  treated  with  a  judicious  kindness 
that  won  her  affections,  and  made  her  ever  willing 
to  render  service  to  the  utmost  of  her  ability. 


LOOK  AT   THE   BRIGHT  SIDE. 

How  rarely  is  an  absent  one  mentioned  with  com 
mendation,  that  a  fault  of  character  is  not  imme 
diately  set  forth  to  qualify  the  good  impressions ! 

"  Mr.  A is  a  man  of  fine  talents,  you  say ;" 

and  forthwith  is  responded,  "  0  yes,  a  man  of  fine 
talents,  but  he  has  no  control  over  his  passions." 

"Mr.  B is    a  man    of  excellent   principles." 

"  But,"  is  answered,  "  I  don't  like  some  of  his  prac 
tices."     "  Mr.  C is  a  kind  father  and  husband." 

"  But  if  all  I  have  heard  be  true,  he  is  not  over-nice 
in  regard  to  his  word."     And,  ten  chances  to  one, 


132  LOOK  AT  THE   BRIGHT   SIDE. 

if  the  commendation  is  not  forgotten,  while  the  dis 
paraging  declarations  find  a  prominent  place  in  the 
memories  of  all  who  heard  them,  and  colour  their 
estimation  of  A ,  B ,  and  C . 

It  is  remarked  by  Swedenborg,  that  whenever  the 
angels  come  to  any  one,  they  explore  him  in  search 
of  good.  They  see  not  his  evil,  but  his  good  quali 
ties  ;  and,  attaching  themselves  to  these,  excite  them 
into  useful  activities.  Were  they  to  see  only  the 
man's  evils,  they  would  recede  from  him,  for  they 
could  not  conjoin  themselves  to  these ;  and  thus 
man  would  be  left  unaided,  to  be  borne  down  by  the 
powers  of  evil. 

If,  then,  we  would  help  our  fellow-man  to  rise 
above  what  is  false  and  evil  in  his  character,  let  us 
turn  our  eyes,  as  far  as  possible,  away  from  his 
faults,  and  fix  them  steadily  upon  his  good  qualities. 
We  shall  then  aid  him  in  the  upward  movement, 
and  give  external  power  to  the  good  he  really  pos 
sesses.  And  now,  by  way  of  illustration. 

A  young  man,  named  Westfield,  was  the  subject 
of  conversation  between  three  or  four  persons.  One 
of  them,  a  Mr.  Hartman,  had  met  Westfield  only 
recently.  The  first  impression  formed  of  his  cha 
racter  was  quite  favourable,  and  he  expressed  him 
self  accordingly.  To  his  surprise  and  pain,  one  of 
the  company  remarked : 

"Yes,  Westfield  is  clever  enough  in  his  way, 
but — ."  And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looked 
a  world  of  mystery. 

"  No  force  of  character,"  said  another. 

"I  have  never  liked  the  way  he  treated  Mr. 
Green,"  said  a  third.  "  It  shows,  to  my  mind,  a 


LOOK   AT   THE   BRIGHT    SIDE.  133 


defect  of  principle.  The  young  man  is  well  enough 
in  his  way,  I  suppose,  and  I  wouldn't  say  a  word 
against  him  for  the  world,  but " 

And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Ah,  how  much 
wrong  has  been  done  to  character  and  worldly 
prospects  by  a  single  shrug  ! 

From  no  lip  present  came  even  the  smallest  word 
in  favour  of  the  young  man.  No  one  spoke  of  the 
disadvantages  against  which  he  had  struggled  suc 
cessfully,  nor  portrayed  a  single  virtue  of  the  many 
he  possessed.  No  one  looked  at  the  brighter  quali 
ties  of  his  mind.  And  why  ?  Poor,  weak  human 
nature  !  Quick  to  mark  evils  and  defects,  but  slow 
to  acknowledge  what  is  good  in  thy  neighbour. 
Prone  to  flatter  self,  yet  offering  only  extorted 
praise  at  the  shrine  of  another's  merit.  How  low 
art  thou  fallen ! 

A  few  evenings  after  the  little  conversation  we 
have  mentioned,  Mr.  Hartman  was  thrown  in  com 
pany  with  Westfield.  The  latter,  remembering  his 
first  interview  with  this  gentleman,  whose  position 
in  society  was  one  of  standing  and  influence,  met 
him  again  with  a  lively  glow  of  satisfaction,  which 
showed  itself  in  countenance  and  manner.  But  the 
few  disparaging  words  spoken  against  the  young 
man  had  poisoned  the  mind  of  Mr.  Hartman ;  and, 
instead  of  meeting  him  with  the  frank  cordiality 
expected,  he  received  him  with  a  cold  repulse. 

Disappointed  and  mortified,  Westfield  turned 
from  the  man  toward  whom  warm  feelings  and  hope 
ful  thoughts  had  been  going  forth  for  many  days, 
and,  in  a  little  while,  quietly  retired  from  a  com- 
12 


LOOK   AT   THE   BRIGHT   SIDE. 

pany,  in  mingling  with  which  he  had  promised  him 
self  both  pleasure  and  profit. 

"  That  hope  blasted  !"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
striking  his  hands  together,  while  a  shadow  of 
intense  pain  darkened  his  countenance.  He  was 
now  alone,  having  returned  to  his  chamber  for  self- 
communion. 

There  existed,  at  this  time,  an  important  crisis  in 
the  young  man's  affairs.  He  was  a  clerk,  on  a  very 
moderate  salary.  His  own  wants  were  few,  and 
these  his  salary  would  have  amply  supplied ;  but  a 
widowed  mother  and  a  young  sister  looked  to  him 
as  their  only  support.  To  sustain  all,  was  beyond 
his  ability ;  and,  much  to  his  anxiety  and  deep  dis 
couragement,  he  found  himself  falling  into  debt. 
His  offence  toward  Mr.  Green,  which  had  been 
alluded  to  as  involving  something  wrong  on  his  part, 
was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  leaving  his  service 
for  that  of  another  man,  who  made  a  small  advance 
in  his  salary — a  thing  which  the  former  positively 
refused  to  do.  He  had  been  with  Mr.  Green  from 
his  boyhood  up,  and  somehow  or  other,  Mr.  Green 
imagined  that  he  possessed  certain  claims  to  his  con 
tinued  service;  and  when  the  fact  of  Westfield's 
having  left  him  was  alluded  to,  gave  to  others  the 
impression  that  he  was  badly  used  in  the  matter. 
He  did  not  mean  to  injure  the  young  man ;  but  he 
had  been  valuable ;  the  loss  fretted  him  and  pro 
duced  unkind  feelings — and  these  found  relief  in 
words.  Selfishness  prevented  him  from  seeing,  as 
he  ought  to  have  seen,  the  bright  side  of  Westfield's 
character,  and  so  he  injured  him  by  throwing  a 
shadow  on  his  good  name. 


LOOK  AT   THE   BRIGHT   SIDE.  135 


"  That  hope  blasted !"  repeated  the  unhappy 
young  man. 

And  what  was  this  fondly  cherished  hope,  the 
extinguishment  of  which  had  moved  him  so  deeply  ? 
A  few  words  will  explain.  Mr.  Hartman  was  a 
man  of  considerable  wealth,  and  had  just  closed  a 
large  contract  with  the  State  for  the  erection  of 
certain  public  works,  to  be  commenced  immediately. 
On  that  very  day  Westfield  had  learned  the  fact 
that  he  was  quietly  in  search  of  a  competent,  confi 
dential,  disbursing  clerk,  whose  salary  would  be 
double  what  he  was  receiving ;  and  it  was  his  pur 
pose  to  see  him  immediately,  offer  himself,  and 
endeavour,  if  possible,  to  secure  the  situation.  He 
had  called  at  his  office  twice  during  the  day,  but 
failed  to  see  him.  The  manner  in  which  Mr.  Hart 
man  met  his  advances  in  the  evening,  satisfied  him 
that  to  ask  for  the  situation  so  much  desired  would 
be  altogether  vain. 

"Westfield  was  a  young  man  of  integrity — compe 
tent  in  business  matters,  and  industrious.  He  had 
his  faults  and  his  weaknesses,  as  we  all  have ;  but 
these  were  greatly  overbalanced  by  his  virtues. 
Yet  was  he  not  above  temptation.  Who  is  ?  Who 
has  not  some  easily  besetting  sin  ?  Who  can  say 
that  he  may  not  fall  ? 

To  Mr.  Hartman,  as  a  private  clerk,  Westfield 
would  have  been  invaluable.  He  was  just  the  kind 
of  a  man  he  was  in  search  of.  Moreover,  he  was 
thinking  of  him  for  this  very  position  of  private 
clerk,  when  the  poison  of  ill-natured  detraction 
entered  his  mind,  and  he  turned  his  thoughts  away 
from  him. 


136  LOOK  AT   THE   BRIGHT   SIDE. 


The  more  he  brooded  over  his  disappointment, 
and  pondered  the  unhappy  condition  of  his  affairs, 
the  more  deeply  did  the  mind  of  Westfield  become 
disturbed. 

"I  cannot  bear  these  thoughts,"  he  said,  starting 
up  from  a  chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting  in 
gloomy  despondency,  and,  in  the  effort  to  escape  his 
troubled  feelings,  he  went  forth  upon  the  street.  It 
was  late  in  the  evening.  There  was  no  purpose  in 
the  young  man's  mind  as  he  walked  square  after 
square  with  hasty  steps ;  and  he  was  about  return 
ing,  when  he  was  met  by  a  man  with  whom  he  had 
a  slight  acquaintance,  and  who  seemed  particularly 
well  pleased  to  see  him. 

"  The  very  man  I  was  thinking  about,"  said  Mr. 
Lee — that  was  his  name.  "  Quite  a  coincidence. 
Which  way  are  you  going  ?" 

"Home,"  replied  Westfield,  somewhat  indiffer 
ently. 

"  In  any  particular  hurry  ?" 

"No." 

"  Come  with  me  then !" 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  To  the  Union  House.  There's  to  be  a  raffle 
there  at  ten  o'clock,  for  six  gold  watches — chance 
in  each  watch  only  one  dollar.  I've  got  five  chances. 
They  are  splendid  watches.  Come  along  and  try 
your  luck." 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Westfield. 

He  was  ready  to  catch  at  almost  any  thing  that 
would  divert  his  mind.  Under  other  circumstances 
this  would  have  been  no  temptation.  So  he  went 
to  the  Union  Hotel,  ventured  a  dollar,  and,  most 


LOOK  AT   THE   BRIGHT   SIDE.,  137 


unexpectedly,  became  the  owner  of  a  gold  watch. 
New  thoughts  and  new  feelings  were  stirring  in  his 
mind  as  he  took  his  way  homeward  that  night, 
excited  as  well  by  some  things  seen  and  heard  at 
the  Union  House,  as  by  the  good  fortune  which  had 
attended  his  first  venture  of  a  small  sum  of  money 
in  the  hope  of  gaining  largely  on  the  deposit. 

The  effect  of  his  cold  treatment  of  Westfield, 
did  not  escape  the  observation  of  Mr.  Hartman. 
He  saw  that  the  young  man  was  both  hurt  and 
troubled — that  he  kept  aloof  from  the  rest  of  the 
company,  and  soon  retired. 

"  Do  you  know  young  Westfield  ?"  he  inquired  of 
a  gentleman  with  whom,  some  time  afterward,  he 
happened  to  be  in  conversation. 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Has  he  good  business  capacity  ?" 

"Few  young  men  excel  him." 

"  Do  you  know  any  thing  of  his  character  ?" 

"It  stands  fair." 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  did  not  treat  his  former 
employer,  Mr.  Green,  very  well." 

"  He  left  him  for  a  higher  salary ;  and,  as  he  has 
a  mother  and  sister  to  support,  he  was  bound,  in 
my  opinion,  to  seek  the  largest  possible  return  for 
his  labour." 

"  Had  Green  no  particular  claim  on  him  ?" 

"No  more  than  you  or  I  have." 

"  I  heard  the  fact  of  his  leaving  the  employment 
of  Mr.  Green  commented  on  in  a  way  that  left  on 
my  mind  an  unfavourable  impression  of  the  young 
man."  % 

"  Some  people  are  always  more  ready  to  sup- 
12' 


4. 
138  LOOK  AT  THE   BRIGHT   SIDE 


pose  evil  than  good  of  another,"  was  replied  to 
this. 

"  I  am  in  search  of  a  competent  young  man  as  a 
private  clerk,  and  had  thought  of  Westfield;  but 
these  disparaging  remarks  caused  me  to  decide 
against  him." 

"  In  my  opinion,"  said  the  gentleman  with  whom 
Mr.  Hartman  was  conversing,  "you  will  search  a 
good  while  before  finding  any  one  so  well  suited 
to  your  purpose,  in  every  respect,  as  young  West- 
field." 

"  You  speak  earnestly  in  regard  to  him." 
"I  do,  and  because  I  know  him  well." 
A  very  different  impression  of  the  young  man 
was  now  entertained  by  Mr.  Hartman.  It  was  past 
eleven  o'clock  on  that  night  as  he  rode  homeward, 
passing  on  his  way  the  Union  House,  and  just  at 
the  moment  when  Westfield,  in  company  with  seve 
ral  young  men,  came  forth  after  the  closing  of  the 
raffle.  They  were  talking  loud  and  boisterously. 
Mr.  Hartman  leaned  from  the  carriage  window, 
attracted  by  the  voices,  and  his  eyes  rested  for  a 
moment  on  Westfield.  The  form  was  familiar,  but 
he  failed  to  get  a  sight  of  his  face.  The  carriage 
swept  by,  and  the  form  passed  from  his  vision ;  but 
he  still  thought  of  it,  and  tried  to  make  out  his 
identity. 

Not  many  hours  of  tranquil  sleep  had  Westfield 
that  night.  As  he  lay  awake  through  the  silent 
watches,  temptation  poured  in  upon  him  like  a 
flood,  and  pressing  against  the  feeble  barriers  of 
weakened  good  principles,  seemed  ready  to  bear 
them  away  in  hopeless  ruin.  In  a  single  hour  he 


LOOK  AT   THE   BRIGHT   SIDE.  139 


had  become  the  possessor  of  a  gold  watch,  which 
could  readily  be  converted  into  money,  and  which, 
at  a  low  valuation,  would  bring  the  sum  of  fifty  dol 
lars, — equal  to  a  month's  salary.  How  easily  had 
this  been  acquired  !  True,  to  raffle  was  to  gamble. 
And  yet  he  easily  silenced  this  objection ;  for  at 
religious  fairs  he  had  often  seen  goods  disposed  of 
by  raffle,  and  had  himself  more  than  once  taken  a 
chance.  Another  raffle  for  valuable  articles  had 
been  announced  for  the  next  night  at  the  Union, 
and  Westfield,  urged  by  the  hope  of  new  successes, 
resolved  to  be  present,  and  again  try  his  luck. 

The  following  morning  found  the  young  man  in  a 
more  sober,  thoughtful  mood.  He  did  not  show  his 
watch  to  his  mother,  nor  mention  to  her  the  fact  of 
having  won  it.  Indeed,  when  she  asked  him  where 
he  had  been  so  late  on  the  night  before,  he  evaded 
the  question. 

On  his  way  to  the  store  in  which  he  was  employed, 
Westfield  called  in  at  a  jeweller's,  and  asked  the 
value  of  his  watch. 

"It  is  worth  about  seventy-five  dollars,"  answered 
the  jeweller,  looking  very  earnestly  at  Westfield, 
and  with  a  certain  meaning  in  his  countenance  that 
the  young  man  did  not  like. 

"  It  is  perfectly  new,  as  you  can  see.  I  would 
like  to  sell  it." 

"  What  do  you  ask  for  it  ?" 

"  I  will  take  sixty  dollars." 

"  I'll  buy  it  for  fifty,"  said  the  jeweller. 

"Very  well,  it  is  yours." 

Westfield  felt  like  a  guilty  man.  He  was  cer 
tain  that  the  jeweller  suspected  him  of  having 


140  LOOK  AT   THE   BRIGHT  SIDE. 

obtained  it  through  some  improper  means.  The 
money  was  paid  over  at  once,  and  thrusting  the 
sum  into  his  pocket,  he  went  hurriedly  out.  As  he 
was  leaving  the  store,  he  encountered  Mr.  Hart- 
man,  who  was  entering.  He  dropped  his  eyes  to 
the  ground,  while  a  crimson  flush  overspread  his 
face. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Westfield,"  said  Mr.  Hartman,  detain 
ing  him,  "  I  am  glad  to  meet  you.  Will  you  call  at 
my  office  this  morning?" 

"If  you  wish  me  to  do  so,"  replied  the  young 
man,  struggling  to  overcome  the  confusion  of  mind 
into  which  the  sudden  encounter,  under  the  circum 
stance,  had  thrown  him. 

"I  do.  Call  at  eleven  o'clock — I  wish  to  see 
you  particularly." 

"  Do  you  know  that  young  man  ?"  inquired  the 
jeweller,  as  Mr.  Hartman,  to  whom  he  was  well 
known,  presented  himself  at  his  counter. 

"What  young  man?"  inquired  Mr.  Hartman. 

"  The  young  man  with  whom  I  saw  you  speaking 
at  the  door." 

"  Yes.  His  name  is  Westfield ;  and  a  very  excel 
lent  young  man  he  is.  Do  you  know  any  thing 
about  him  ?" 

"I  know  that  he  has  just  sold  me  a  watch  for 
fifty  dollars,  which  I  sold  for  seventy -five  yesterday 
to  a  man  who  told  me  he  was  going  to  raffle  it." 

The  jeweller  didn't  say  this.  It  came  in  his 
thoughts  to  say  it.  But  he  checked  the  utterance, 
and  merely  replied : 

"Nothing  at  all.     He  is  a  stranger  to  me." 

Had  that  first  impulse  to  produce  an  unfavourable 


LOOK    AT    THE    BRIGHT    SIDE.  141 

impression  in  regard  to  a  stranger,  been  obeyed,  the 
life  prospects  of  Westfield  would  have  been  utterly 
blasted.  The  evening  that  followed,  instead  of 
finding  him  at  home,  rejoicing  with  his  mother  and 
sister  over  the  hopeful  future,  would  have  seen  him 
again  in  the  dangerous  company  of  unscrupulous 
men,  and  entering  in  through  the  gate  that  leads  to 
destruction.  Now  he  saw  clearly  his  error,  the 
danger  he  had  escaped,  and  wondered  at  his  blind 
infatuation,  while  he  shuddered  at  the  fearful  con 
sequences  that  might  have  followed,  had  not  a  bet 
ter  way  opened  to  his  erring  footsteps  at  the  very 
moment  when,  in  strange  bewilderment,  he  was 
unable  to  see  the  right  path. 

Mr.  Hartman  never  had  cause  to  regret  his  choice 
of  a  clerk.  He  often  thought  of  the  injustice  which 
the  young  man  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  those 
who  should  have  seen  his  good  qualities,  instead  of 
seeking  for  and  delighting  in  the  portrayal  of  bad 
ones.  And  he  thought,  too,  of  the  actual  injury 
this  false  judgment  had  come  near  inflicting  upon  a 
most  worthy,  capable,  and  honest  person.  He  did 
not  know  all.  The  reader  can  penetrate  more 
deeply  below  the  surface,  and  see  how  a  few  care 
lessly-uttered  disparaging  words,  proved  hidden 
rocks,  on  which  the  hopes  of  a  fellow-being,  for  this 
life  and  the  next,  came  near  being  wrecked. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  JOE  BARKER. 


"DON'T  go  out,  Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Barker,  as  she 
saw  her  husband  take  his  hat  and  move  off  quietly 
toward  the  door. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stay  long." 

And  a&  Barker  said  this,  he  glided  from  the  room. 
Mrs.  Barker  followed  quickly,  with  the  purpose  of 
arresting  his  progress  and  bringing  him  back  into 
the  house. 

Now,  Joe  Barker  was  a  very  weak-minded  man ; 
one  of  those  innocent,  harmless  creatures,  who  are 
their  own  worst  enemies,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
enemies  to  the  peace  of  all  with  whom  they  have  in 
timate  relations.  He  was  very  good-natured,  even 
when  in  liquor ;  and,  what  is  more  remarkable  still, 
good-natured  under  the  sharp  words  of  his  not  over- 
patient  wife,  who  never  failed  in  her  duty  toward 
him,  so  far  as  reproof  and  angry  invective  were  con 
cerned.  There  was  no  lack  of  occasion  for  these, 
in  the  almost  daily  defections  of  Barker,  whose 
temperance  resolutions,  when  in  sight  of  a  dram 
shop,  were  strong  as  threads  of  wax  in  a  furnace 
heat. 

Mrs.  Barker,  as  just  said,  followed  quickly,  in 

order  to  intercept  her  husband's  movements.     She 

knew  very  well  for  what   purpose   he  was    going 

out  after  supper.     There  was  only  one  attraction 

142 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  JOE  BARKER.     143 


stronger  than  home  for  him,  and  that  was  the  tavern. 
When  Mrs.  Barker  passed  forth  and  stretched  out 
her  hands  to  grasp  the  form  of  her  weak  husband, 
she  clutched  but  the  empty,  air.  Anticipating  this 
very  movement,  Joe  had  sprung  away  with  nimble 
feet  the  instant  the  door  was  closed  behind  him ; 
and  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  his  wife's  inter 
cepting  hands  when  she  made  her  appearance. 

"Isn't  it  too  much?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barker,  as 
she  went  back  into  the  house,  after  satisfying  her 
self  that  Joe  was  fairly  beyond  her  reach.  "  He's 
got  his  whole  week's  wages  in  his  pockets,  and  ten 
to  one  if  he  doesn't  get  rid  of  nearly  half  of  it 
before  he  comes  home.  I  wish  every  tavern  in  the 
State  was  burned  down,  and  every  tavern-keeper  in 
the  penitentiary — and  it  would  be  so  before  long, 
if  I  had  my  way !  It's  no  better  than  robbery  to 
take  the  money  of  a  half-innocent  like  him.  If  I 
had  only  been  in  time  to  stop  him  and  get  his  money 
out  of  his  pocket !" 

Mrs.  Barker  was  both  vexed  and  grieved;  so 
much  so,  that  she  sat  down  and  wept. 

In  the  mean  time  her  husband  made  his  way  to 
the  nearest  tavern,  which  was  not  very  far  off. 
Poor  Joe  Barker  !  The  words  of  his  wife,  when  she 
called  him  a  "  half-innocent,"  nearly  expressed  the 
truth.  His  intellectual  range  was  very  low.  He 
could  read — early  drilling  in  the  district  school  had 
accomplished  for  him  that  much — but  his  ability  to 
read  was  rarely  put  to  any  good  use.  Newspapers 
he  saw  now  and  then  at  the  tavern,  but  he  never 
found  much  in  them  beyond  a  vulgar  anecdote  that 
interested  him.  Of  the  history  of  current  events, 


WHAT   HAPPENED   TO   JOE   BARKER. 


he  did  not  understand  sufficient  to  encourage  thought 
in  that  direction.  In  fact,  general  knowledge  as  to 
what  was  passing  in  the  great  world  around  him, 
was  as  much  hidden  from  his  dull  eyes  as  if  it  were 
in  a  sealed  book.  He  worked  at  his  trade,  that  of 
a  cooper,  very  much  as  a  horse  goes  round  in  a  mill. 
He  had  learned  how  to  make  a  barrel,  somewhat  in 
differently  ;  and  daily,  when  not  too  much  overcome 
with  drink,  he  sat  on  the  wooden-horse  in  the  old 
cooper  shop,  deliberately  working  his  drawing-knife 
— or  arranged  the  staves  in  form,  and  bound  them 
with  hoops.  He  had  no  need  of  intellectual  skill  to 
keep  on  with  his  tasks.  He  knew  how  to  make  a 
barrel,  and  that  was  about  the  extent  of  his  know 
ledge  in  mechanical  science.  His  earnings  ranged 
from  two-and-a-half  to  five  dollars  a  week,  but  never 
went  beyond  the  last-mentioned  sum.  Too  large  a 
proportion  of  this  found  its  way  into  the  landlords' 
tills,  much  to  the  injury  of  Joe  Barker  and  his 
miserable  family.  Strong  liquor  on  so  weak  a  brain 
made  it  only  the  weaker;  and  the  poor  innocent, 
when  sober,  was  little  removed  from  a  good-natured 
fool  when  drunk. 

It  was  all  in  vain  that  Betsy  Barker,  his  faithful, 
though  long-suffering,  and  often  justly  indignant 
wife,  went  many  times  to  the  tavern-keepers  who 
sold  him  drink,  and  implored  them,  with  tears,  in  the 
name  of  God  and  humanity,  not  to  sell  her  husband 
intoxicating  drinks.  Coarse  insult  or  wicked  abuse 
was  all  she  received — and  she  would  go  back,  weep 
ing  and  despairing,  to  her  cheerless  home  and  half- 
starving  children. 

Thus  it  was  with  Joe  Barker  and  his  family  on 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  JOE  BARKER.     145 


the  night  in  which  we  have  introduced  them  to  the 
reader.  What  was  a  little  unusual  for  Joe,  he  had 
worked  steadily  all  day,  and  without  once  going  to 
the  tavern  to  get  a  drink.  In  fact,  Betsy  had  talked 
to  him  so  earnestly  in  the  morning,  and  pictured  to 
his  mind  so  vividly  the  evil  consequences  of  his  way 
of  life,  that  he  had  made  one  of  his  feeble  resolu 
tions  to  become  a  sober  man.  This  resolution  he 
had  been  able  to  keep  through  the  day,  sustained 
therein  by  the  useful  labour  in  which  he  was  en 
gaged.  But,  when  evening  came  in,  and  his  thought 
went  to  the  tavern  and  the  good  fellows  there  assem 
bled,  with  whom  he  was  wont  to  meet,  he  was  unable 
to  withstand  the  impulse  that  led  him  thitherward. 
And  so,  seizing  a  favoured  moment,  he  left  the  house, 
ere  his  watchful  partner  could  prevent  it. 

Diving  down  a  narrow  cross  street,  not  far  from 
the  poor  hovel  in  which  he  dwelt,  Joe  Barker  was 
soon  in  front  of  "The  Diamond,"  an  old  drinking 
haunt  of  the  worst  description.  He  was  right  against 
the  closed  door  ere  he  noticed  the  absence  of  the 
red  lamp,  on  which  the  word  "  Refectory"  had  so 
often  tempted  him  with  thoughts  of  good  cheer 
within ;  and  he  pushed  several  times  against  the 
door,  ere  fully  satisfied  that  it  was  fastened  within. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  muttered  Joe,  in 
some  bewilderment  at  so  singular  a  state  of  affairs. 
Stepping  back  a  pace  or  two,  he  looked  up  at  the 
house.  "Lamp  out — door  locked — shutters  closed 
— what's  the  matter? — old  Gilbert's  not  dead,  I 
hope." 

Two  or  three  feeble  raps  were  made  on  the  door, 
but  only  a  hollow  sound  came  from  within. 
13 


146          WHAT   HAPPENED   TO  JOE   BARKER. 


"I  don't  understand  it  all,"  said  Joe  Barker, 
now  observing,  for  the  first  time,  that  this  particular 
neighbourhood,  usually  crowded,  so  to  speak,  with 
noisy  tipplers  every  evening,  had  a  deserted  look. 
Here  and  there  a  man  might  be  seen  moving  briskly 
along,  as  if  on  some  particular  errand,  or  on  his  way 
home.  But  there  were  no  groups  at  the  corners, 
no  loud  talkers:  none  of  the  usual  evidences  of 
drinking  and  rowdyism. 

"  It  can't  be  Sunday  evening,"  thought  Joe  ;  and 
he  stood  still,  trying  to  think,  with  his  hand  on  his 
forehead. 

No ;  it  was  not  Sunday  evening,  he  was  certain 
of  this;  for  he  remembered  that  "The  Diamond" 
had  always  been  ready  to  receive  customers — whether 
it  were  Saturday  or  Sunday  evening. 

"  He's  dead,  or  moved  away."  This  was  the  only 
conclusion  to  which  Joe  could  arrive.  So  he  passed 
on,  saying  to  himself — 

"I'll  go  round  to  Sprigg's;  for  I  must  have  a 
drink  to-night." 

And  so  the  poor,  meagrely-clad  creature  went 
shuffling  along  the  half-deserted  pavement,  where, 
aforetime,  he  had  been  wont  to  meet  at  every  turn, 
wretches  sold  to  the  vice  of  intoxication,  and  even 
more  degraded  than  himself.  But  few  of  these 
were  now  to  be  seen,  and  they  were  evidently  as 
much  bewildered  at  the  changed  aspect  which  every 
thing  wore  as  he  was. 

Sprigg  kept  a  drinking  and  gambling  den,  in  the 
next  square  from  Gilbert's.  Thither  Joe  Barker 
groped  his  way,  for  the  street  was  unusually  dark — 
the  large  lamp  in  front  of  "  The  Diamond,"  now 


WHAT   HAPPENED   TO   JOE   BARKER.  147 

extinguished,  had,  of  itself,  lit  up  the  whole  block. 
Stranger  still !  Sprigg's  den  was  closed.  A  dim 
light,  shining  through  one  of  the  upper  windows, 
encouraged  Barker  to  hammer  on  the  shut  door  for 
admittance.  Two  or  three  times  he  knocked  before 
there  was  any  evidence  of  life  within.  Then  a  win 
dow  in  the  second  story  was  opened,  and  a  man's 
head  thrust  out. 

"Who's  there?"  was  growled  in  a  gruff,  almost 
angry  voice. 

"  Hey !  Sprigg,  is  that  you  ?"  cried  Barker. 
"What,  in  wonder,  is  the  matter?" 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  ?"  returned 
Sprigg  sharply. 

"I'm  Joe  Barker;  come  down  and  let  me  in.  I 
want  the  stiffest  glass  of  rum-toddy  you  can  make ; 
for  I  havn't  tasted  a  drop  since  yesterday." 

"  If  I  do  come  down,  it'll  be  a  sorry  time  for  you, 
old  chap!"  was  the  passionate  answer  of  Sprigg. 
"Off  with  you,  and  this  instant !" 

"Why,  what's  in  the  wind  now,  neighbour?" 
said  Barker,  more  puzzled  than  before.  "  Have 
you  all  shut  up  shop — turned  pious,  and  joined  the 
church  ?" 

The  tavern-keeper  sputtered  out  an  oath,  as  he 
drew  in  his  head,  and  closed  the  sash  with  a  heavy 
jar. 

Joe  Barker  was  mystified  worse  than  ever.  What 
could  it  all  mean  ? 

"Somebody  must  be  dead."  He  looked  for  a 
strip  of  crape;  but  the  old  iron  latch-guard  was 
guiltless  of  the  drapery  of  mourning.  A  wooden 
block  stood  by  the  door,  and  upon  this  Barker  sat 


143  WHAT   HAPPENED   TO   JOE   BARKER. 


down  to  think,  if  his  mental  processes  could  thus  be 
dignified. 

"The  'Diamond'  and  Sprigg's,  both  shut  up! 
Can't  make  it  out.  Is  the  world  coming  to  an  end? 
May  be  somebody's  murdered;  and  they're  been 
closed  by  the  police  ?  Shouldn't  wonder  !  They 
say  Sprigg  is  a  bad  fellow ;  and  that  Gilbert  was 
once  tried  for  his  life.  That's  it,  as  sure  as  a  gun ! 
I'll  go  right  off  to  Paul  Dixon's.  They'll  know  all 
about  it,  there." 

Paul  Dixon  was  another  grog-seller,  whose  bar 
room  was  close  by,  around  the  corner.  Thither  Joe 
directed  his  steps,  impelled  as  much  by  an  awakened 
curiosity  as  by  an  all-consuming  thirst.  Wonder 
of  wonders !  All  was  dark  and  silent  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  Paul  Dixon's.  Even  the  great  lamp, 
with  its  stained  glass  sides,  and  variegated  letters, 
had  been  taken  down,  and  the  bare  lamp-post,  as  it 
stood  sharp  against  the  sky,  added  to  the  deserted 
aspect  of  things,  so  new,  and  strange,  and  unac 
countable. 

"Something's  wrong,"  murmured  Joe  Barker, 
in  a  subdued  voice.  "  Something's  to  pay."  He 
looked  at  the  lamp-post,  at  the  closed  windows  and 
door  of  Paul  Dixon's  tavern,  and  sighed.  He  really 
felt  melancholy. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  good  drink,"  he  said,  arousing 
himself.  "  I  never  was  so  dry  in  my  life.  I  wonder 
if  all  the  taverns  are  closed.  Gilbert,  Sprigg,  and 
Dixon  shut  up!  Can't  make  it  out,  no  how." 

Thus  talking  with  himself,  Joe  commenced  re 
tracing  his  steps,  but  very  slowly,  his  eyes  cast 
down  to  the  pavement.  So  lost  was  he  in  a  be- 


WHAT   HAPPENED   TO   JOE   BARKER.  149 

wildering  maze  of  doubt  and  suggestion,  that,  ere 
aware  of  an  obstruction  in  his  path,  he  came  sud 
denly,  and  with  quite  a  shock,  against  a  very  sober, 
old-fashioned  pump,  that  signified  its  consciousness 
of  the  assault,  by  rattling  somewhat  noisily  the  chain 
of  its  iron  ladle. 

"Hi!  hi!  what's  the  matter  now?"  ejaculated 
Barker,  moving  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  trying  to 
relink  the  broken  chain  of  his  thoughts.  "  Only 
the  old  pump !  Aha !  I've  had  many  a  cool  drink 
here,  in  my  time,  both  as  boy  and  man;  and  it 
never  cost  me  a  cent,  nor  made  me  more  of  a  fool 
than  some  people  say  I  am  by  nature.  Good  even 
ing,  Mr.  Pump!  Let  us  shake  hands,  or  shake 
handle,  just  as  you  please,  for  old  acquaintance'  sake. 
I've  been  trying  to  get  a  drink  for  this  half  hour. 
But  not  a  drop  is  to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  The 
rum-sellers  have  all  shut  up  shop,  it  seems.  I  hope 
you  re  not  on  a  strike,  too.  Let's  see  !" 

Joe  Barker  lifted  the  handle,  putting  the  iron 
ladle  under  the  spout  as  he  did  so,  and  brought  it 
down  with  a  strong  jerk.  Out  gushed  the  crystal 
water,  looking  clear  and  beautiful  even  in  the  feeble 
starlight.  It  filled  the  ladle,  overrun  its  sides,  and 
went  splashing  down  upon  the  pavement.  Thero 
was  something  pleasant  in  the  sound,  even  to  the 
dull  ears  of  Barker ;  and  there  was  a  feeble  awaken 
ing  in  his  mind  of  dear  old  memories  about  boyhood, 
and  the  early  times  when  he  was  a  better  man  than 
now. 

To  his  mouth  he  placed  the  brimming  ladle,  and 
drank  a  pure  draught  of  nectar.  Just  as  he  had 
removed  the  vessel  from  his  lips,  and  taken  a  deep 

13* 


150  WHAT   HAPPENED   TO  JOE   BARKER. 


inspiration,  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder  familiarly, 
and  a  friendly  voice  said— 

"  Cheaper  drinking  that,  neighbour  Barker,  than 
ever  was  found  at  the  'The  Diamond,'  across  yonder, 
and  a  thousand  times  better  into  the  bargain.  I'm 
glad  to  see.  you  returning  to  your  old  friend  again, 
and  hope  you  may  never  have  occasion  to  desert 
him.  Friend  Pump  is  worth  a  score  of  your  Spriggs, 
Dixons,  and  Gilberts.  What  a  blessed  thing  that 
you  are  for  ever  rid  of  their  friendly  offices  !" 

"For  ever  rid  of  them?"  said  Barker.  "What 
does  it  all  mean,  neighbour  ?  What  have  they  done  ? 
Has  any  one  been  murdered?" 

''Murdered!  No,  not  exactly  that;  but,  didn't 
you  know  that  the  old  villain  Alcohol  died  last  night." 

"Died?  What!  I  don't  understand."  And 
poor  Joe  Barker  looked  more  bewildered  than  ever. 
"Died— how?" 

"Why,  Joe  Barker!  Is  it  possible  you  don't 
know  that  the  Maine  Law  went  into  operation  in 
our  State  to-day?" 

"The  Maine  Law!"  Joe  took  off  his  old  hat, 
and  laid  one  of  his  broad  hands  upon  his  forehead. 
"The  Maine  Law!  I  heard  'em  talking  about  it 
on  last  election.  They  said  it  was  a  dreadful  out 
rage  upon  our  liberties,  over  at  'The  Diamond,'  and 
so  I  voted  against  it.  What  does  it  do,  neighbour  ? 
Will  it  shut  up  all  the  taverns?" 

"That's  just  what  it  has  done  already.  You 
can't  buy  a  drink  of  liquor  in  the  whole  town." 

"You  don't  tell  me!  Good,  say  I  to  that! 
Well,  I  couldn't  make  it  out,  no  how.  I  thought 
something  strange  had  happened.  All  shut  up? 


WHAT   HAPPENED   TO   JOE   BARKER.  151 


Ho,  ho !  Sprigg  said  it  would  be  the  ruination  of 
the  town  if  the  law  passed.  I  rather  guess  he 
thought  there  was  nobody  in  town  left  to  be  ruined 
except  rum-sellers.  And  you're  sure  every  tavern 
has  been  closed?" 

"I  know  it,"  was  the  decided  answer. 

"  Then  I'll  run  home  and  tell  Betsy.  But  won't 
she  be  glad!" 

And  away  the  excited  creature  ran,  as  fast  as  his 
feet  would  carry  him. 

Poor  Betsy  Barker !  When  she  found  that  Joe 
had  gone  off,  with  all  his  week's  wages  in  his  pocket, 
she  felt  like  giving  up.  They  were  out  of  meal  and 
meat,  and  the  children's  shoes  no  longer  kept  their 
feet  from  the  ground.  For  herself,  she  had  not  a 
garment  but  what  was  patched  and  repatched  until 
scarcely  a  whole  breadth  of  the  original  fabric  re 
mained.  She  had  laid  it  all  out  in  her  mind,  how 
she  was  going  to  spend  the  four  dollars  which  her 
husband  told  her,  in  the  morning,  he  would  be  paid 
for  his  week's  work.  It  was  a  very  small  sum  when 
set  off  against  their  many,  many  needs ;  but  she  had 
apportioned  it,  in  her  thought,  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  it  go  the  farthest  in  supplying  things  abso 
lutely  necessary.  But,  alas !  alas !  Joe  had  gone 
off  with  the  whole  sum  in  his  pocket,  and  she  knew 
the  chances  were  ten  to  one  that  he  would  not  have 
the  half  of  it  left — perhaps  not  a  dollar — when  he 
came  home. 

The  poor  wife  was  disheartened,  and  who  can 
wonder?  She  cleared  off  the  supper  things,  and 
then  sat  down  to  mend  an  old  jacket  belonging  to 
her  oldest  boy.  As  she  turned  it  over  and  over, 


152          WHAT   HAPPENED   TO   JOE   BARKER. 


and  noticed  how  torn  and  worn  it  was — more  fit  for 
the  rag-bag  than  any  thing  else — she  let  it  fall  into 
her  lap,  and,  bending  over  upon  the  table  by  which 
she  was  sitting,  buried  her  face  in  her  arms.  She 
did  not  weep  now.  Her  feelings  of  despondency 
had  in  them  too  much  of  hopelessness  for  tears. 

As  she  sat  thus,  the  door  opened,  and  her  quick 
ears  recognised  the  footsteps  of  her  husband.  Her 
heart  fluttered  instantly  with  a  new  hope,  while  half 
the  oppressive  weight  on  her  bosom  was  removed. 
His  return,  so  early  and  so  unexpectedly,  was  an 
augury  of  good.  That  he  had  been  drinking,  she 
doubted  not;  but  there  was  ground  for  believing 
that  he  had  not  wasted  the  money  she  so  much 
needed.  She  did  not  raise  her  head  until  Joe  came 
up  to  where  she  was  sitting,  and,  in  a  tone  of  exulta 
tion,  which  he  could  not  repress,  exclaimed — 

"  Hurrah,  Betsy !  Good  news  !  There's  all  my 
money — not  a  cent  gone."  And  he  threw  a  hand 
ful  of  silver  coin  on  the  table.  "  Good  news !  What 
do  you  think?  Old  King  Alcohol's  dead.  I've 
just  heard  the  news." 

"Are  you  crazy,  Joe?"  said  Mrs.  Barker,  look 
ing  in  wonder  and  bewilderment  at  her  excited 
husband. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  darling!"  answered  Joe,  as  he 
threw  his  arms  around  his  wife's  neck,  and  kissed 
her.  "Nor  drunk,  either,"  he  added,  as  she  pushed 
him  away.  "Why,  Betsy!  Don't  you  know  that 
we've  got  a  Maine  Law?  I've  been  to  Gilbert's, 
and  to  Sprigg's,  and  to  Dixon's,  but  they're  all  shut 
up.  Tompkins  told  me  that  a  drop  of  liquor  couldn't 
be  bought  in  the  whole  town.  Ain't  that  good  news 


GOING   TO   THE    DOGS.  153 


for  you,  old  girl !  Hurrah,  boys !  I'm  as  glad  as 
if  I'd  found  a  new  dollar.  I  never  could  pass  their 
doors  without  going  in  for  a  drink,  whether  I  wanted 
to  or  not.  Somehow  or  other,  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Joe!  Joe!  Is  all  true  what  you  say?"  eagerly 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Barker,  now  pressing  forward  upon 
her  husband,  and  drawing,  almost  involuntarily,  her 
arms  around  him.  "Is  it  all  true,  Joe?" 

"Every  word  of  it,  Betsy,  as  I'm  a  living  man." 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  was  the  overjoyed 
wife's  sobbing  response,  as  her  face  fell  upon  the 
bosom  of  her  kind-hearted,  but  weak  and  erring 
husband. 

A  month  from  that  time,  and  what  a  change  was 
visible  in  their  humble  dwelling !  And  not  in  theirs 
alone,  but  in  thousands  of  other  dwellings  through 
out  the  State  from  which  prompt  legislation  had 
driven  the  vile  traffic  in  rum,  with  all  its  attendant 
crime  and  wretchedness. 


GOING  TO  THE  DOGS. 

"I  RECEIVED  your  bill  to-day,  Mr.  Leonard," 
said  a  customer,  as  he  entered  the  shop  of  a  master 
mechanic. 

"  We  are  sending  out  our  accounts  at  this  season," 
returned  the  mechanic,  bowing. 

"I  want  to  pay  you." 


154  GOING    TO    THE    DOGS. 


"  Very  well,  Mr.  Baker,  we're  always  glad  to  get 
money." 

"But  you  must  throw  off  something.  Let  me 
see," — and  the  customer  drew  out  the  bill — "  twenty- 
seven  dollars  and  forty-six  cents.  Twenty-five  will 
do.  There,  receipt  the  bill  and  I'll  pay  you." 

But  Leonard  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  deduct  a  cent  from  that  bill,  Mr.  Baker. 
Every  article  is  charged  at  our  regular  price." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  can.  Just  make  it  twenty-five  dol 
lars,  even  money.  Here  it  is,"  and  Baker  counted 
out  the  cash. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Baker,  but  I  cannot  afford  to 
deduct  any  thing.  If  you'd  only  owed  me  twenty- 
five  dollars,  your  bill  would  have  been  just  that 
amount.  I  would  not  have  added  a  cent  beyond 
what  was  due,  nor  can  I  take  any  thing  less  than 
my  own." 

"  Then  you  won't  deduct  the  odd  money  ?" 

"I  cannot,  indeed." 

"Very  well."  The  manner  of  the  customer 
changed.  He  was  evidently  offended.  "  The  bill 
is  too  high  by  just  the  sum  I  asked  to  have  stricken 
off.  But  no  matter,  I  can  pay  it." 

"  Then  you  mean  to  insinuate,"  said  the  mechanic, 
who  was  an  independent  sort  of  a  man,  "  that  I 
am  cheating  you  out  of  two  dollars  and  forty-six 
cents  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  so." 

"  But  it  is  plain  that  you  think  so,  or  you  wouldn't 
have  asked  an  abatement.  If  you  considered  my 
charges  just,  you  wouldn't  dispute  them." 

"Oh,  never  mind,  never  mind!  we'll  not  waste 


GOING    TO    THE    DOGS.  155 

words  about  it.  Here's  your  money,  said  Mr. 
Baker ;  and  he  added  another  five-dollar  bill  to  the 
sum  he  had  laid  down.  The  mechanic  receipted 
the  account  and  gave  the  change,  both  of  which  his 
customer  thrust  into  his  pocket  with  a  petulant  air, 
and  then  turned  and  left  the  store  without  another 
word. 

"It's  the  last  bill  he  ever  has  against  me,"  mut 
tered  Baker  to  himself,  as  he  walked  away.  "  If 
that's  his  manner  of  treating  customers,  he'll  soon 
go  to  the  dogs.  He  was  downright  insulting,  and 
no  gentleman  will  stand  that  from  another,  much 
less  from  a  vulgar  mechanic.  Mean  to  insinuate ! 
Humph !  Yes,  I  did  mean  to  insinuate !"  and  Mr. 
Baker  involuntarily  quickened  his  pace.  "  He'll 
soon  go  to  the  dogs.  I've  paid  him  a  great  deal  of 
money,  but  it  is  the  last  dollar  of  mine  he  ever 
handles." 

Baker  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  withdrew 
his  custom  from  the  offending  mechanic,  and  gave 
it  to  another. 

"  I've  got  one  of  your  old  customers,  Leonard," 
said  a  friend  in  the  same  business  to  the  mechanic, 
some  six  or  eight  months  afterward. 

"Ah!  who  is  it?" 

"Baker." 

Leonard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  How  came  you  to  lose  him  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  you  can  keep  him." 

"Well,  how?" 

"  If  your  bill  amounts  to  thirty  dollars,  make  it 
thirty-three  and  a  few  odd  cents,  by  increasing 
some  of  its  items.  He  will  want  the  surplus 


156  GOING   TO    THE   DOGS. 

knocked  off,  which  you  can  afford  to  do ;  then 
he  will  pay  it,  and  think  you  just  the  man  for 
him." 

"  You  lost  him,  then,  because  you  wouldn't  abate 
any  thing  from  a  true  bill." 

"I  did." 

"  Thank  you.  But  suppose  my  bill  should  be 
twenty-six,  or  seven,  or  eight:  what  then?  I 
couldn't  knock  off  the  odd  dollars  for  the  purpose 
of  making  it  even." 

"  No.  In  that  case  you  must  add  until  you  get 
about  thirty." 

"  And  fall  back  to  that  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  knocking  off  the  odd  dollars, 
which  he  will  think  clear  gain." 

"  That  would  hardly  be  honest." 

"  Hardly.  But  you  must  do  it,  or  lose  his  cus 
tom  some  day  or  other." 

"  I  shall  have  to  accommodate  him,  I  suppose. 
If  he  will  be  cheated,  it  can't  be  helped." 

On  the  very  first  bill  that  Baker  paid  to  his  new 
tradesman  he  obtained  an  abatement  of  one  dollar 
and  ninety  cents  odd  money,  but  actually  paid  three 
dollars  more  than  was  justly  due.  Still  he  was  very 
well  satisfied,  imagining  that  he  had  made  a  saving 
of  one  dollar  and  ninety  cents.  The  not  over-scru 
pulous  tradesman  laughed  in  his  sleeve  and  kept 
his  customer. 

Having  withdrawn  his  support  from  Leonard,  it 
was  the  candid  opinion  of  Mr.  Baker  that  he  was 
"  going  to  the  dogs,"  as  he  expressed  it,  about  as 
fast  as  a  man  could  go.  He  often  passed  the  shop, 
but  rarely  saw  a  customer. 


GOING    TO    THE    DOGS.  157 


"  No  wonder,"  he  would  say  to  himself.  "  A 
man  like  him  can't  expect  and  doesn't  deserve  cus 
tom." 

-  In  the  eyes  of  Baker,  the  very  grass  seemed  to 
grow  upon  the  pavement  before  the  door  of  the 
declining  tradesman.  Dust  settled  thickly  in  his 
window,  and  the  old  sign  turned  grayer  and  grayer 
in  the  bleaching  air. 

"Going  to  the  dogs,  and  no  wonder,"  Baker 
would  say  to  himself,  as  he  went  by.  He  appeared 
to  take  a  strange  interest  in  watching  the  gradual 
decay  of  the  mechanic's  fortunes.  One  day  a  mer 
cantile  friend  said  to  him — 

"  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  this  Leonard?" 

"Why?"  asked  Baker. 

"  Because,  he  wants  to  make  a  pretty  large  bill 
with  me." 

"On  time?" 

"Yes,  on  the  usual  credit  of  six  months," 

"Don't  sell  him.  Why,  the  man  is  going  to  the 
dogs  at  railroad  speed." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes,  I'm  looking  every  day  to  see  him  close  up. 
He  might  have  done  well,  for  he  understood  his 
business.  But  he's  so  unaccommodating,  and  I 
may  say  insulting  to  his  customers,  that  he  drives 
the  best  ones  away.  I  used  to  make  large  bills 
with  him,  but  haven't  dealt  at  his  shop  now  for  some 
time." 

"  Ah !  I  was  not  aware  of  that.  I  am  glad  1 
spoke  to  you,  for  I  shouldn't  like  to  lose  six  or  seven 
hundred  dollars." 

"  Six  or  seven  hundred  !     Is  it  possible  that  he 
14 


158  GOING    TO    THE    DOGS. 


wants  to  buy  so  recklessly !  Take  my  advice,  and 
don't  think  of  trusting  him." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not." 

When  Leonard  ordered  the  goods,  the  merchant 
declined  selling  except  for  cash. 

"As  you  please,"  returned  the  mechanic  indiffer 
ently,  and  went  elsewhere  and  made  his  purchases. 

It  happened  that  Mr.  Leonard  had  a  very  pretty 
and  interesting  daughter,  on  whose  education  the 
mechanic  had  bestowed  great  pains ;  and  it  also 
happened  that  Baker  had  a  son  who,  in  most  things, 
was  a  "  chip  of  the  old  block."  Particularly  was 
he  like  his  father  in  his  great  love  of  money,  and 
scarcely  had  he  reached  his  majority,  ere  he  began 
to  look  about  him  with  a  careful  eye,  to  a  good 
matrimonial  arrangement,  by  which  plenty  of  money 
would  be  secured. 

Adelaide  Leonard,  on  account  of  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments,  was  much  caressed,  and  mingled 
free  in  society.  Young  Baker  had  met  her  fre 
quently,  and  could  not  help  being  struck  with  her 
beauty,  intelligence,  and  grace. 

"  There  is  a  charm  for  you,"  said  a  friend  to  him 
one  evening. 

"  In  Miss  Leonard  ?" 

"Yes." 

"She's  a  charming  girl,"  replied  the  young 
man.  "  I  wonder  if  her  father  is  worth  any  thing?" 

"  People  say  so." 

"Indeed." 

"  Yes.  They  say  the  old  fellow  has  laid  up  some 
thing  quite  handsome ;  and  as  Adelaide  is  his  only 
child,  she  will  of  course  get  it  all." 


GOING    TO    THE    DOGS.  159 


"I  was  not  aware  of  that." 

"  It  is  all  so,  I  believe." 

After  this,  young  Baker  was  exceedingly  atten 
tive  to  Miss  Leonard,  and  made  perceptible  inroada 
upon  her  heart.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  visit 
pretty  regularly  at  her  house,  and  was  meditating 
an  avowal  of  his  attachment,  when  his  father  said  to 
him  one  day — 

"  What  young  lady  was  that  I  saw  you  with  in 
the  street  yesterday  afternoon?" 

"Her  name  is  Leonard." 

"  The  daughter  of  old  Leonard  in street  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Baker  looked  grave,  and  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  her?"  asked  the 
son. 

"  Nothing  about  her ;  but  I  know  that  her 
father  is  going  to  the  dogs  as  fast  as  ever  a  man 
went." 

"  Indeed  !  I  thought  he  was  well  off." 

"  Oh  no,  I've  been  looking  to  see  his  shop  shut 
up,  or  to  hear  of  his  being  sold  out  by  the  sheriff, 
every  day,  for  these  two  years  past." 

"Miss  Leonard  is  a  very  lovely  girl." 

"  She's  the  daughter  of  a  poor,  vulgar  mechanic. 
If  you  see  any  thing  so  very  lovely  in  that,  Henry, 
you  have  a  strange  taste." 

"  There  is  no  gainsaying  Adelaide's  personal 
attractions,"  replied  the  son,  "  but  if  her  father  is 
poor,  that  settles  the  matter  as  far  as  she  and  I  are 
concerned.  I  am  glad  you  introduced  the  subject, 
for  I  might  have  committed  myself,  and  when  too 
late  discovered  my  error." 


160  GOING   TO    THE    DOGS. 

"And  a  sad  error  it  would  have  been,  Henry. 
In  any  future  matter  of  this  kind,  I  hope  you  will 
be  perfectly  frank  with  me.  I  have  a  much  more 
accurate  knowledge  of  the  condition  and  standing 
of  people  than  you  can  possibly  have." 

The  son  promised  to  do  as  his  father  wished. 
From  that  time  the  visits  to  Miss  Leonard  were 
abated,  and  his  attentions  to  her,  when  they  met  in 
society,  became  coldly  formal.  The  sweet  young 
girl,  whose  feelings  had  really  been  interested,  felt 
the  change,  and  was  for  a  time  unhappy ;  but  in  a 
few  months  she  recovered  herself,  and  was  again  as 
bright  and  cheerful  as  usual. 

Time  went  steadily  on,  sweeping  down  one  and 
setting  up  another,  and  still  old  Leonard  didn't  go 
to  the  dogs,  much  to  the  surprise  of  Baker,  who 
could  not  imagine  how  the  mechanic  kept  his  head 
above  water  after  having  driven  away  his  best  cus 
tomers,  as  he  must  long  since  have  done,  if  all  were 
treated  as  he  had  been.  But  he  was  satisfied  of  one 
thing,  at  least,  and  that  was  that  the  mechanic  must 
be  miserably  poor,  as  he,  in  fact,  deserved  to  be, 
according  to  his  idea  of  the  matter. 

One  day,  about  a  year  after  his  timely  caution  to 
his  son  in  regard  to  Miss  Leonard,  Baker  happened 
to  pass  along  a  street  where  he  had  not  been  for 
some  months.  Just  opposite  a  large,  new,  and 
beautiful  house,  to  which  the  painters  were  giving 
their  last  touches,  he  met  a  friend.  As  they  passed, 
Baker  said — 

"  That's  an  elegant  house.  It  has  been  built 
since  I  was  in  this  neighbourhood." 


GOING    TO    THE   DOGS.  161 


"Yes,  it  is  a  very  fine  house,  and  I  suppose 
didn't  cost  less  than  fifteen  thousand  dollars." 

"  No,  I  should  think  not.  Who  built  it  ?  Do 
you  know?" 

"  Yes.     It  was  built  by  Leonard." 

"By  whom  ?"     Baker  looked  surprised. 

"  By  old  Leonard.     You  know  him." 

"Impossible!  He's  not  able  to  build  a  house 
like  that." 

"Oh  yes,  he  is,  and  a  half  a  dozen  more,  if 
necessary." 

"  Leonard !" 

"  Certainly.  Why,  he's  worth  at  least  seventy 
thousand  dollars." 

"You  must  be  in  error." 

"  No.  His  daughter  is  to  be  married  next  month 
to  an  excellent  young  man,  and  this  house  has  been 
built  and  is  to  be  handsomely  furnished  as  a  mar 
riage  present." 

"  Incredible !  I  thought  he  was  going  or  had 
gone  to  the  dogs  long  ago." 

"  Leonard  !"  The  friend  could  not  help  laugh 
ing  aloud.  "  He  go  to  the  dogs.  Oh,  no.  There 
isn't  a  man  in  his  trade  that  does  so  good  a  busi 
ness,  as  little  show  as  he  makes.  Good  work,  good 
prices,  and  punctuality  are  the  cardinal  virtues  of 
his  establishment,  and  make  all  substantial.  How 
in  the  world  could  you  take  up  such  a  notion?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  such  has  been  my  impression 
for  a  long  time,"  replied  Baker,  who  felt  exceed 
ingly  cut  down  on  account  of  the  mistake  he  had 
made,  and  particularly  so  in  view  of  the  elegant 
house  and  seventy  thousand  dollars,  which  might  all 
14* 


162      ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 

have  belonged  to  his  son,  in  time,  if  he  had  not 
fallen  into  such  an  egregious  error  about  old 
Leonard. 

So  the  world  moves  on.  People  are  prone  to 
think  that  what  they  smile  on  lives,  and  what  they 
frown  on  is  blighted  and  must  die. 


ONE  OF  THE   SOLVENT   CLASS. 

"Let  him  that  itandeth,  take  heed,"  Ac. 

"THERE'S  been  another  'burst  up'  in  Pearl 
street,"  said  Mr.  B.,  entering  the  store  of  Mr.  A., 
in  Maiden  Lane. 

"Indeed!  and  who  is  it?"  asked  Mr.  A.,  with 
his  usual  expression  of  concern,  when  he  heard  that 
a  merchant  of  New  York  had  made  a  failure  of  it. 

"  Eldridge,  to  be  sure !  Who  would  have  dream 
ed  that  he  was  not  sound  at  the  core?" 

"Not  I,  certainly.  Nor  do  I  believe  a  word  of 
his  real  insolvency,  if  he  has  gone  by  the  board. 
No — no !  Old  Eldridge  is  too  shrewd  a  man  to  let 
his  affairs  become  tangled." 

"Then  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  A ?" 

"  Think  ?  Why,  I  think  there's  something  rotten 
in  Denmark." 

"You  judge  severely." 

"I  always  suspect  unfair  play  when  such  men  as 
Mr.  Eldridge  fail." 


ONE   OF   THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  163 


"And  lie  is  the  last  man  I  would  suspect,"  said 
Mr.  B . 

"I've  seen  too  much  of  the  world,  and  am  too 

old  now  to  be  humbugged,"  Mr.  A replied, 

with  a  selfish  grin. 

"A  meeting  of  creditors  has  been  called  for  this 
morning,  at  eleven  o'clock." 

"There  has!  Well,  as  he's  into  me  to  the  tune 
of  some  five  or  six  thousand  dollars,  I  shall  most 
certainly  be  there." 

"But  before  you  come,"  said  Mr.  B ,  "try  to 

divest  your  mind  of  the  idea  of  fraud,  so  that  you 
can,  with  the  rest  of  us,  enter  into  a  just  and  hu 
mane  examination  of  his  affairs." 

"  Pish !  Humane  !  Yes,  there  it  comes  !  That 
is  the  way!  Whenever  a  man  wants  to  tip  over 
and  pocket  a  few  thousands  that  belong  to  his  cre 
ditors,  he  gets  some  one  to  raise  the  cry  of  huma 
nity.  But  it  won't  do  for  me,  Mr.  B- ;  I  don't 

bite  at  such  bait." 

Indignant  at  the  unfeeling  insolence  of  the  mer 
chant,  Mr.  B turned  away  from  him  without 

replying,  and  left  his  store. 

On  the  same  morning,  a  scene  was  passing  in  one 
of  the  splendid  dwellings  in  Mott  street,  that  well 
might  touch  the  heart.  An  elderly  man  was  seated 
in  the  parlour,  near  the  fire,  lost  in  deep  and  pain 
ful  thought;  but  neither  of  his  three  beautiful 
daughters,  nor  their  mother,  knew  of  what  was  in 
his  mind. 

Adeline,  the  eldest,  was  seated  at  the  piano,  en 
deavouring  to  perfect  herself  in  a  new  and  difficult 
piece  of  music;  and  Constance  and  Margaretta 


164       ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 


were  engaged  in  a  conversation  about  a  splendid 
fete  to  be  given  in  Park  Place,  the  invitations  to 
which  had  that  morning  been  handed  in. 

"Every  thing,  they  say,  is  to  be  on  a  grand 
scale,"  remarked  Constance. 

"Too  grand,  I'm  afraid,"  Margaretta  replied, 
"for  pleasure.  But,  I  suppose,  we  will  have  to 

g°-" 

"Of   course,    we   will,"    said    Constance.      "It 

would  never  do  to  miss  the  most  splendid  'come 
off,'  as  they  call  it,  of  the  season." 

"I  wonder  where  these  magnificent  affairs  will 
stop.  None  but  millionaires  can  afford  them. — 
High  ho !  I  suppose,  pa,  we  can't  yet  rank  our 
selves  with  that  class,"  said  the  happy  hearted  girl, 
laughing  as  she  turned  toward  her  father. 

"What  did  you  say,  Margaretta?"  asked  the  lat 
ter,  thus  suddenly  roused  from  his  revery,  while  a 
shadow  flitted  over  his  countenance. 

"  I  was  saying,  pa,  that  we  could  not  yet  rank 
ourselves  with  the  millionaires,"  she  replied,  not  ob 
serving  the  expression  of  his  face. 

The  deep  and  almost  convulsive  sigh  that  follow 
ed  this  remark,  and  the  evident  pain  it  gave, 
arrested  the  attention  of  each  one  present,  and 
they  turned  toward  him  with  glances  of  anxious 
inquiry.  A  pause  of  a  few  moments  followed, 
when  the  husband  and  father  nerved  himself  to  the 
task  that  had  to  be  performed,  and  said,  while  his 
voice  trembled — 

"My  dear  children;  and  you,  Anna,  who  have 
been  with  me  in  humble  life  as  well  as  in  affluence; 
I  have  sad  news  to  tell,  and  it  almost  breaks  my 


ONE   OF  THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  165 


heart  to  utter  it.  I  am  that  thing  of  scorn  and 
persecution,  a  broken  merchant!" 

Pale  cheeks  and  tearful  eyes  followed  this  sudden, 
undreamed  of  announcement.  And  well  they  might, 
for  such  an  event  usually  carries  with  it  a  degree 
of  hopelessness  that  none  can  imagine  but  they  who 
have  experienced  it. 

"Were  it  not  for  you,  my  wife,  and  you,  dear 
children,  I  should  care  but  little,"  was  at  length 
said,  and  as  this  remark  caused  every  eye  again  to 
seek  the  merchant's  face,  each  was  doubly  pained 
to  see  tear  after  tear  rolling  over  his  cheeks,  now 
browned  and  time-worn. 

"Do  not  think  of  us,  dear  father  !"  said  Adeline, 
instantly  springing  to  his  side,  and  drawing  her 
arm  round  his  neck.  "  Be  your  lot  what  it  may, 
we  will  share  it  cheerfully." 

"You  know  not  what  it  is,  my  children,  to  be 
cast  down,  suddenly,  from  a  place  in  society  such  as 
we  have  occupied.  To  be  passed  in  the  street  by 
your  former  intimate  friends,  without  notice.  I 
know  you  cannot  bear  it !" 

"  Indeed,  father,  these  things  are  nothing  to  us, 
in  comparison  with  you  and  your  happiness,"  said 
Margaretta  and  Constance,  drying  their  tears  and 
gathering  around  him,  one  with  a  hand  in  his,  and 
the  other  leaning  fondly  on  his  shoulder.  "For 
your  sake,  we  will  bear  any  thing." 

"  May  heaven  bless  you,  my  dear  children !"  said 
the  old  man,  fervently.  "  And  I  know  it  will  bless 
you,  for  your  pure  affection.  Only  try  to  be  pa 
tient  and  cheerful,  and  we  may  again  hold  up  our 
heads." 


166       ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 

"  Trust  us,  dear  father  !"  Adeline  joined  in  say 
ing.  "  If  our  cheerful  endurance  of  any  reverse 
that  may  come  upon  us,  will  strengthen  your  heart, 
then  you  need  not  despond." 

The  father  bent  his  head,  in  silence,  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  said,  more  calmly — 

"  Recent  failures  in  the  "West  have  swept  from 
me,  suddenly,  so  large  an  amount  of  capital,  that 
I  can  go  on  no  longer  in  business ;  and  I  very  much 
fear,  from  the  standing  of  other  country  merchants 
•who  are  indebted  to  my  house  largely,  that  I  shall 
not  only  come  out  without  a  dollar,  but  be  insolvent 
to  a  large  amount.  Thus,  you  see,  that  our  fall 
will  be  low  indeed." 

"We  would  rather  live  in  honourable  and  honest 
obscurity,  and  even  poverty,"  said  Constance,  em 
phatically — "  than  move  in  princely  splendour,  were 
our  father  to  act  as  some  merchants,  who  have 
failed,  and. still  retained  all  their  former  style  of 
living,  are  said  to  have  acted." 

"  Spoken  like  my  own  child !"  the  father  an 
swered,  tenderly  kissing  her.  "  I  fear  your  noble 
principles  will  soon  receive  a  severe  test." 

"None  of  us  will  fail  you,  pa,"  the  others  added, 
smiling  affectionately,  though  sadly.  "We  would 
be  unworthy  so  good  a  father,  did  we  shrink  a  mo 
ment  from  duty." 

"  This  morning  will  fix  our  fate,"  said  the  mer 
chant,  rising.  "  My  creditors  meet  at  eleven  o'clock, 
and  there  are  those  among  them  who  know  not  the 
word  'mercy.'  We  will,  without  doubt,  soon  be 
stripped  of  every  thing." 

"  Despair  is   never  quite  despair,  pa,"  Adeline 


ONE   OF  THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  167 


said,  holding  his  hand,  and  looking  him  encourag 
ingly  in  the  face. 

"God  bless  you,  my  children!"  was  all  the  mer 
chant  could  utter,  as  he  lifted  from  the  table  a 
bundle  of  papers  and  hurried  away. 

Half  an  hour  after,  he  entered  a  room  over  a 
broker's  office  in  Wall  street,  where  he  found  wait 
ing  for  him  twelve  or  fifteen  men.  Some  of  them 
received  him  kindly  as  he  came  in,  but  the  majority 
regarded  him  with  clouded  brows,  and  some  one  or 
two  with  scowls  of  selfish  malignancy. 

"You  know  the  object  of  this  meeting,  gen 
tlemen,"  said  he,  after  seating  himself.  "Here  is 
a  statement  of  my  affairs." 

"I  never  should  have  expected  this  from  you, 
Mr.  Eldridge,"  remarked  one  of  the  creditors,  look 
ing  at  him  reproachfully. 

"  But,  Mr.  L ,  I  am  not  wilfully  in  this  situa 
tion." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Mr.  L ,  tossing  his  head 

significantly,  replied, 

"Oh,  no — everybody  who  fails  is  the  pink  of 

honesty,"  broke  in  Mr.  A ,  with  an  angry  glance 

at  Eldridge. 

"Mr.  A ,  I  cannot  permit  such  remarks,"  the 

debtor  responded  firmly. 

"  I  wonder  how  you'll  help  it,  sir,"  Mr.  A 

said  fiercely,  springing  to  his  feet,  while  his  face 
grew  dark  with  anger.  "I  never  believe  in  your 
honest  failures,"  he  continued.  "What  right  have 
you  or  any  one  else  to  risk  my  property?  What" — 

But  he  was  cut  short  by  a  motion  from  an  indi 
vidual  present,  calling  another  to  the  chair.  Aa 


168 


ONE   OF  THE   SOLVENT   CLASS. 


soon  as  the  meeting  was  thus  organized,  Mr.  A 

attempted  to  go  on,  but  was  compelled  by  the  chair 
man  to  take  his  seat,  which  he  did,  muttering  bitter 
invectives  against  the  unfortunate  debtor. 

"And  now,"  said  the  chairman  of  the  meeting, 
"we  should  be  pleased  to  have  your  statement,  Mr. 
Eldridge." 

The  creditor  then  proceeded  to  submit  a  full  his 
tory  of  his  affairs.  He  was  indebted,  according  to 
this,  on  all  accounts,  in  the  sum  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  As  an  offset,  his  books  showed 
as  due  him  on  merchandise,  bills  receivable,  and 
claims  in  suit,  two  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  he 
had,  besides,  property  which  had  cost  him  forty 
thousand  dollars.  But  of  this  fifty  thousand  dollars 
was  known  to  be  a  dead  loss,  and  nearly  an  equal 
sum,  owing  to  the  continued  depression  of  business, 
was  set  down  as  "doubtful  and  desperate."  The 
real  estate  would  not  now,  if  thrown  into  market, 
bring  twenty  thousand  dollars.  In  closing  this  state 
ment,  he  proposed  to  give  up  every  thing  into  the 
hands  of  a  trustee,  provided  each  creditor  would 
sign  a  release,  and  thus  give  him  a  chance  to  get  on 
his  feet  again.  On  taking  his  seat,  the  first  man 
who  took  the  floor  was  Mr.  A . 

"I  see  plain  enough,"  said  he,  addressing  the 
chairman  of  the  meeting,  "  that  here  is  to  be  another 
one  of  the  many  late  attempts  at  wiping  off  all  old 
scores.  But  I,  for  one,  am  determined  that  I  will 
release  no  man.  It's  high  time  this  system  of  re 
leasing  men  was  broken  up.  It's  a  premium  on 
insolvency;  or  roguery,  I  should  have  said.  If  men 
knew  that  they  would  have  to  toe  the  mark  up  to 


ONE   OF   THE    SOLVENT   CLASS.  169 


the  last  cent,  there  wouldn't  be  so  many,  who  know 
nothing  about  doing  business,  rushing  into  its  intri 
cacies,  dividing  and  sub-dividing  it  until  it's  good 
for  nothing,  and  then  taking  in  honest  merchants. 
You'll  never  hear  of  me  failing,  sir.  No — no.  I 
belong  to  the  solvent  class!" 

Here  Mr.  A ,  whose  idea  of  his  belonging  to 

the  solvent  class,  when  once  expressed,  so  excited 
his  selfish  vanity,  that  he  lost  the  thread  of  what  he 
was  going  to  say,  had  to  sit  down.  Before  he  had 
time  to  recover  his  thoughts,  another  merchant  pre 
sent  addressed  the  meeting. 

"No  one,"  said  he,  "could  have  been  taken  more 
by  surprise  than  myself  at  learning  that  our  friend 
Mr.  Eldridge  had  been  compelled  to  suspend.  But 
my  confidence  in  his  integrity  and  honourable  prin 
ciple  has  been  unbounded,  and  is  unshaken  now. 
A  statement  of  his  affairs  shows  conclusively  the 
cause  of  his  present  embarrassment.  There  are 
four  firms  in  the  West,  by  which  we  all  have  suffered, 
that  I  find  have  broken  in  upon  Mr.  Eldridge's  busi 
ness  to  a  very  heavy  amount.  Most  of  us  did  not 
hesitate  to  sell  them  freely,  and  no  one  can  blame 
him  for  doing  the  same.  Besides  this,  he  has  been 
seriously  'Involved  in  the  numerous  failures  that  have 
taken  place  in  our  own  city.  That  he  is  unfor 
tunate,  is  the  hardest  term  we  can  apply  to  him ; 
and,  as  such,  he  claims  our  sympathy  and  kind  con 
sideration.  No  one  of  us  knows  how  soon  he,  from 
unforeseen  causes,  may  be  reduced  to  a  like  ex 
tremity.  I  most  certainly  go  for  releasing  him." 

"Let  me  beg  the  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  A , 

rising  hastily,  and  displaying  much  heat,  "not  to 
15 


170  ONE   OF  THE   SOLVENT   CLASS. 


include  me  among  his  prospective  insolvents.  I 
belong  to  the  other  class.  I  never  expect  to  fail, 
and  rob  honest  people  of  their  rights.  I  do  business 
on  higher  and  better  principles.  No  man  has  any 
right  to  fail !  No  man  need  fail  who  has  common 
prudence  and  common  honesty.  He  shall  never 
have  my  name.  He  shall  rot  in  a  prison  first.  I'm 
determined  to  make  an  example  of  these  kind  of 
humbug  merchants.  Let  them  all  be  swept  away, 
and  then  we  shall  have  good  times  again — curse  on 
them !" 

"  But  you  can  gain  nothing,  Mr.  A ,  by  such 

a  course,"  the  debtor  said  calmly.  "I  give  you  up 
all.  Nor  will  I  consider  your  release  of  me  from 
legal  obligations  a  moral  exoneration.  Only  take 
off  the  manacles — give  me  a  chance,  and  I  may  yet 
be  able  to  pay  even  to  the  last  cent." 

" Pish!"  was  the  creditor's  sneering  ejaculation. 
"  Catch  me  such  a  fool  as  to  trust  to  a  broken  mer 
chant's  honour.  I've  seen  too  many  of  the  tribe." 

"Shame  !  shame!"  cried  two  or  three  voices. 

Mr.  A 's  face  grew  black  with  anger. 

"You  needn't  try  to  operate  on  me,  gentlemen," 
he  said,  in  a  loud,  positive  tone.  "I  am  made  of 
stuff  not  to  be  bent.  I  solemnly  swear,  that  I  will 
never  release  him,  nor  any  of  the  rest  of  you  either 
if  you  attempt  to  play  the  same  game." 

"Let  us  take  the  sense  of  the  meeting,"  said  one. 

"  The  sense  of  the  meeting,"  said  another. 

"  Shall  the  sense  of  the  meeting  be  taken  ?"  asked 
the  chairman. 

"Ay" — "ay" — "ay,"  ran  round  the  room,  and 
the  chairman  said — 


ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS.       171 


"  All  who  are  in  favour  of  accepting  an  assign 
ment  of  Mr.  Eldridge's  property,  real  and  per 
sonal  and  then  granting  him  a  full  release,  will 
say  Ay. 

Many  voices  responded  in  the  affirmative,  and 
then  the  chairman  put  the  negative. 

"NO !"  said  Mr.  A ,  in  a  loud,  positive  voice — 

and  "No" — "no" — "no,"  came  from  three  others, 
but  in  tones  far  less  emphatic. 

"Now  let  us  see  how  far  the  ayes  and  nays  repre 
sent  the  amount  claimed  from  Mr.  Eldridge." 

On  examination,  it  was  found  that  those  who  were 
in  favour  of  accepting  the  assignment,  and  releasing 
the  debtor,  were  creditors  to  the  amount  of  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty  thousand  dollars,  and  the  twenty 
thousand  were  due  to  those  who  refused  to  release 
him — six  thousand  of  this  to  Mr.  A . 

"  To  you,  who  have  thus  so  kindly  considered  and 
felt  for  my  painful  situation,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge, 
"  I  must  be  permitted  to  express  my  deep  gratitude 
— and  of  you  who  do  not  seem  to  regard  me  as 
honest,  I  must  certainly  beg  a  reconsideration  of 
your  present  views.  Unless  you  all  agree,  nothing, 
I  fear,  can  be  done.  Even  if  a  portion  of  you  were 
to  release  me,  how  could  I  possibly  bear  up,  without 
any  money  to  sustain  me,  against  the  balance  of  the 
claims  ?  I  could  not  pay  them." 

"  Suppose  we  adjourn  the  meeting  until  eleven 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  Perhaps  by  that  time 
those  that  object  to  the  measure  may  think  better 
of  it,"  suggested  one. 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself,"  said  Mr.  A ,  sneer- 


172      ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 

"I  move  that  we  adjourn  until  to-morrow  morn 
ing  at  eleven  o'clock,"  said  Mr.  B . 

The  motion  was  seconded,  and  carried,  and  the 
meeting  accordingly  adjourned. 

Mr.  A walked  down  Wall  street  with  a  Mr. 

T ,  also  one  of  the  objectors  to  the  release. 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  A ,"  said  the  latter, 

"  but  I'm  half  inclined  to  think  that  I  shall  vote  to 
morrow  for  the  release  of  Eldridge." 

"  You'll  be  a  fool  if  you  do,  let  me  tell  you  that !" 
responded  A . 

"I  can't  see  any  good  that  is  to  grow  out  of 
refusing." 

"  Can't  you,  indeed !  Well,  perhaps  I  can  en 
lighten  you  a  little." 

"I  wish  you  would — for  light  on  the  subject 
would  certainly  be  very  acceptable." 

"  It's  the  only  way  you  will  ever  get  the  whole 
of  your  money." 

"  How  can  that  be,  when  the  debtor  is  insolvent?" 

"If  we  positively  refuse  a  compromise,"  said 

A ,  "the  rest  of  the  creditors  will  buy  us  off. 

The  estate,  I  am  convinced,  will  pay  seventy-five 
cents  on  the  dollar.  We  would  be  entitled  to  that 
much  any  how ;  and  for  the  sake  of  getting  us  to 
release  old  Eldridge,  some  of  the  very  humane  ones 
will  propose  to  allow  us  our  full  claims,  and  the  rest 
will  come  into  it.  That's  the  way  I  always  do,  and 
I  get  my  full  amount  four  times  out  of  five." 

"  There  is  not  much  danger  of  you,  I  see," 
remarked  T . 

"  No,  that  there  is  not.  I  claim  my  own,  and 
will  have  it.  I'm  one  of  the  solvent  ones,  and  can- 


ONE   OF   THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  173 


not  sympathize  with  men  who  want  to  get  off  with 
out  paying  their  debts.  There  are  two  or  three 
men  among  Eldridge's  creditors  who  are  a  little 
ticklish  ;  and  they  owe  me.  I  want  to  let  them  see 
just  what  they  have  to  expect." 

"  And  what  good  will  that  do,  Mr.  A ?" 

"  A  great  deal.  They'll  take  care  to  be  off  of 
my  books  before  they  knock  under." 

T parted  with  A under  a  high  idea  of 

his  shrewdness,  resolving  to  imitate  so  fair  a  speci 
men  "Of  a  prudent  and  safe  merchant. 

"  Well  he  may  say  that  he  belongs  to  the  solvent 
class,"  he  remarked  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
musingly  along.  "It  requires  more  shrewdness 
than  I  dreamed  of  to  get  on  safely  in  these 
times." 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  next  morning,  the 
second  meeting  of  creditors  was  held.  The  friends 
of  the  debtor  had,  in  the  mean  time,  been  at  work 
upon  those  who  had  refused  on  the  day  previous  to 
sign  off.  All  had  agreed  to  the  arrangement  but 

A ,  and  his  friend  and  prote'ge',  T .  Them, 

neither  argument  nor  persuasion  could  move.  In 
vain  did  Eldridge  represent  to  them  his  condition, 
stripped,  prospectively,  of  every  thing,  and  with 
a  family  raised  amid  plenty  looking  up  to  him  for 
support. 

"Surely,  Mr.  A ,"  he  said,  "misfortune  is 

not  crime." 

"  Every  bankrupt  speculator  is  criminal !"  A 

responded,  angrily. 

"  I  deny  the  implied  allegation.  It  is  false,  and 
basely  so,"  Eldridge  replied,  his  honest  blood 
15* 


174      ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 


aroused  to  indignation.  "  I  never  speculated  to  the 
amount  of  a  single  dollar  !" 

"  Shame  !  shame !  shame  !  None  but  a  base 
wretch  could  thus  insult  the  unfortunate  !"  were 
the  responses  which  broke  from  many  lips. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  said  one  of  the  creditors, 

rising,  "  the  claims  of  Mr.  A and  Mr.  T 

amount  to  but  eight  thousand  dollars.  I  propose 
that  they  be  paid  off  in  full,  and  that  the  rest  of  us 
take  the  assignment,  and  give  Mr.  Eldridge  an 
honourable  release.  It  will  reduce  our  dividend  but 
an  unimportant  trifle.  You  cannot  choke  them  off 
in  any  other  way.  I  know  them,  and  I  think  we 
all  know  them." 

"  I  am  as  anxious  as  any  one  to  see  Mr.  Eldridge 
here,  whom  we  all  know  to  be  honest  and  honour 
able,  released ;  but  I  have  no  idea  of  rewarding 
unfeeling  cupidity  in  the  way  you  propose,"  said 
another. 

"  But  there  is  no  way  of  avoiding  it,  unless  we 
punish  the  innocent  with  the  guilty." 

"  That  is  the  difficulty,"  replied  the  other,  musing. 
"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  I  suppose  there  is  no  help 
for  it.  I  shall  have  to  waive  my  objections." 

The  matter  was  now  put  to  vote,  and  they  decided 
to  accept  the  assignment,  and  pay  off  in  full  the 
two  obstinate  creditors. 

No  one  can  imagine,  but  he  who  has  passed 
through  a  like  scene  of  trial,  how  much  of  suffering 
was  condensed  into  the  few  days  that  elapsed  from 
the  time  Mr.  Eldridge  became  conscious  of  his 
inability  to  continue  his  business,  until  every  thing 
was  settled,  and  he  thrown,  at  the  age  of  fifty, 


ONE   OF   THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  175 


penniless  upon  the  world.  Not  that  he  shrunk 
back  in  painful  dread  at  the  prospect  before  him 
and  his  family,  but  from  the  sickening  conscious 
ness  that  he  could  not,  and  might  never  be  able  to 
pay  others  their  just  dues — from  the  instinctive 
repugnance  he  had  to  meet  face  to  face  those  whom 
he  owed,  and  say  to  them,  "  I  cannot  pay  my  obli 
gations  !"  Every  one,  he  thought,  must  blame  him. 
Even  those  who  befriended  and  stood  by  him,  must, 
he  felt,  because  they  were  sufferers,  entertain  some 
thing  of  a  distrust  toward  him.  All  this  was  agony 
to  a  mind  like  his ;  but  he  nerved  himself  for  the 
time,  and  happily  passed  through  it. 

After  every  thing  was  fairly  arranged,  and  the 
creditors,  with  consideration  and  humanity,  had 
voluntarily  agreed  to  let  him  retain  the  furniture  in 
his  house,  he  came  home,  and  calling  his  family 
around  him,  said — 

"Now,  my  dear  children,  the  storm  is  about 
reaching  you.  But  I  trust  your  fortitude  will  keep 
you  up.  Your  mother  and  myself  think,  that  as 
circumstances  are  so  greatly  changed,  we  should 
change  our  style  of  living.  Indeed,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary,  for  we  could  not  support  it  two  months." 

"We  have  settled  all  that,  pa,"  Adeline  said, 
smiling.  "  You  are  to  get  a  smaller  and  cheaper 
house,  and  to  sell  off  a  good  deal  of  the  costly  fur 
niture.  Constance  and  I  intend  teaching  music 
and  drawing;  and  Margaret  is  going  to  assist 
mother  about  the  house,  so  that  we  will  only  have 
to  keep  a  cook.  How  do  you  like  that  arrange 
ment?" 

"Better  than  any  I  could  have  proposed.     You 


176       ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 


do  not  know,  my  children,  what  a  load  you  have 
taken  from  my  heart.  We  shall  yet,  I  feel,  lift  our 
heads.  I  am  still  as  capable  of  doing  business  as 
ever,  and  must  soon  get  into  something.  In  the 
mean  time,  we  can  realize  at  least  a  thousand  dol 
lars  on  our  useless  and  surplus  furniture;  and  this, 
with  your  efforts  at  teaching  music  and  drawing, 
will  keep  us  comfortably  for  a  year.  Ere  that 
expires,  I  shall  be  in  some  business,  I  hope." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  be  unhappy," 
said  Adeline  when  her  father  ceased  speaking.  "  I 
am  sure  that  I  feel  more  cheerful  in  prospect  of 
doing  what  we  propose,  than  I  ever  did  in  prospect 
of  any  thing  in  my  life." 

"There  is  no  doubt,  Adeline,"  said  her  father, 
"  that  the  only  path  of  contentment  is  that  of  duty, 
cheerfully  entered  into.  I  am  glad,  indeed,  that 
you  have  all  so  readily  and  willingly  entered  that 
path.  But  you  must  not  expect  all  to  be  pleasar.t. 
You  will  find  your  intimacies  of  years  broken  into. 
Old  friends  will  be  friends  no  longer.  Even  upon 
the  street,  you  will  find  yourself  passed  by  unno 
ticed  by  those  who  have  been  your  companions 
since  childhood." 

"And  we  have  talked  all  that  over  too,  pa,"  said 
the  affectionate  girl,  looking  him  in  the  face  with  a 
smile  that  had  in  it  much  of  sadness.  "It  is  hard, 
of  course,  but  we  must  bear  it.  Already  I  have 
had  my  first  trial.  Yesterday,  while  out  for  a  little 

while,  I  met  Florence  A ,  and  she  passed  me 

just  as  if  I  were  a  perfect  stranger.  I  know  she 
saw  me,  for  she  looked  right  into  my  face,  and  I 
paused,  naturally,  smiling,  to  speak  to  her.  We 


ONE   OF   THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  177 


have  been  intimate,  you  know,  for  years.  I  felt  it, 
for  the  time,  keenly,  and  thought  it  a  most  cruel 
slight.  But  I  can  think  calmly  about  it  now.  Such 
heartless  friends  are  not  worth  retaining." 

"And  most  certainly,  Adeline,  if  Florence  inhe 
rits  her  father's  peculiar  spirit,  you  need  not  crave 
her  friendship.  He  positively  refused  to  release 
me,  even,  after  giving  up  every  thing — charged  me 
with  dishonesty,  and  talked  about  seeing  me  rotting 
in  a  jail ;  and  I  never  could  have  got  released,  if 
the  creditors  had  not  generously,  for  my  sake, 
agreed  to  pay  him  and  another,  as  heartless,  their 
entire  claims." 

"  Oh,  pa !  Is  it  possible  that  any  man  could  be 
so  unfeeling?" 

"Yes,  my  child,  there  are  many  such.  Nothing 
less  than  the  pound  of  flesh  will  suit  them." 

"I  am  glad,  then,  that  Florence  cut  me;  for  I 
am  sure  that  I  never  could  have  been  on  friendly 
terms  again  with  her." 

As  the  girls  had  proposed,  numerous  articles  of 
furniture  were  sold,  and  the  family  then  removed 
into  a  smaller  house,  at  a  rent  of  four  hundred  dol 
lars  per  annum.  A  sign  soon  made  its  appearance 
at  the  side  of  the  front  door,  with  the  announce 
ment — "Music  AND  DRAWING  TAUGHT  BY  THB 
MISSES  ELDRIDGE."  Several  of  the  daily  papers 
contained  their  advertisement. 

"  Why,  see  here,  girls,"  said  a  Mrs.  Coolidge, 
who  had  a  growing  family,  and  a  pretty  numerous 
one  too,  on  the  morning  that  their  advertisement 
appeared,  "  the  Misses  Eldridge  advertise  to  teach 
music  and  drawing.  They  have  been  unfortunate, 


178       ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 


and  we  must  encourage  them.  Besides,  we  all  know 
how  exquisitely  Adeline  and  Constance  can  sing 
and  play,  and  they  are  such  amiable  young  ladies 
into  the  bargain.  How  much  I  admire  them  for 
thus  at  once  endeavouring  to  aid  their  father!" 

"  Four  of  us  are  taking  lessons  now,  and  we'll  all 
go  there,  won't  we,  ma?"  said  one  of  the  misses. 

"  Certainly,  I  would  rather  you  would  go  there 
than  anywhere  else.  We  must  call  and  see  them 
this  very  afternoon." 

Sure  enough,  Mrs.  Coolidge  and  her  two  eldest 
girls,  who  had  already  gone  into  company,  and  had 
been  on  friendly  terms  with  the  young  ladies  they 
proposed  to  visit,  prepared  to  go  out  that  afternoon, 
and  call  upon  Adeline  and  her  sisters.  Just  as 

they  were  ready,  Florence  A and  her  mother 

dropped  in.  After  a  little  conversation  on  various 
unimportant  topics,  Mrs.  A said — 

"  So,  old  Eldridge  has  gone  all  to  pieces.  They 
say  he  has  made  a  wonderful  bad  business  of  it,  and 
many  strongly  suspect  him  of  unfair  dealing." 

"And  I  see,"  broke  in  Florence,  "that  the  girls 
have  set  up  a  music  and  drawing  school.  Who 
could  have  thought  they  would  ever  come  to  that  ? 
I  should  not  think  they  could  hold  up  their  heads 
after  the  conduct  of  their  father.  But  there  are 
strange  people  in  the  world.  I  saw  Adeline  once 
in  the  street  since,  and  she  looked  me  in  the  face 
as  unconcerned  as  ever.  I  was  so  disgusted  at  her 
want  of  true  feeling,  that  I  passed  her  unnoticed. 
I  can't  understand  some  people." 

"  I  should  think,  Mrs.  A ,"  said  Mrs.  Coolidge, 

"  that  the  fact  of  the  girls  being  compelled  to  open 


r. 

* 


ONE    OF   THE    SOIA^ENT   CLASS.  179 


a  school  ought  to  exonerate  the  father  from  any 
suspicion  of  unfair  dealing.  Mr.  Coolidge  told  me 
that  he  was  one  of  the  creditors,  and  that  Mr.  El- 
dridge  honourably  gave  up  every  thing." 

"And  my  husband  told  me,"  responded  Mrs. 

A ,  "  that  matters  and  things  looked  bad 

enough,  and  that  if  he  could  have  had  his  way  with 
him,  he  would  have  sent  him  to  prison,  as  he  de 
served." 

Mrs.  Coolidge  did  not  reply,  for  she  had  been 
told  of  Mr.  A 's  unfeeling,  and  even  brutal  con 
duct,  and  gradually  changed  the  subject.  After 
the  visitors  had  retired,  she  went  out  as  she  had  de 
signed,  with  her  two  eldest  daughters,  and  called  on 
Mrs.  Eldridge  and  the  girls.  The  two  families  had 
been  on  intimate  terms.  After  a  brief  and  friendly 
conversation,  and  a  renewal  of  kind  feelings,  Mrs. 
Coolidge  proposed  to  send  four  of  her  girls  to  re 
ceive  lessons  in  music,  and  also  in  drawing.  The 
terms  were  named  and  agreed  upon,  when  she 
said — 

"  I  think,  Adeline,  I  can  get  you  a  good  many 
scholars.  If  you  have  no  objection,  I  will  go  among 
some  of  your  former  friends,  many  of  whom,  I  doubt 
not,  have  nearly  forgotten  you  already,  and  stir  up 
an  interest  in  your  favour." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  Coolidge,"  Adeline  re 
plied,  with  feeling.  "  I  am  willing,  for  one,  to  rest 
our  cause  in  your  hands.  The  fact  of  our  setting 
up  a  school  is,  of  course,  evidence  enough  that  we 
have  need  to  do  so.  All  AVC  now  want  are  scholars. 
Give  us  plenty  of  these,  and  we  will  ask  no  more." 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,  and  I  intend  in- 


180       ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 

teresting  several  who  possess  influence.  We'll  get 
up  a  good  school  among  us,  depend  upon  it." 

Mrs.  Coolidge  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She 
did  interest  herself,  and  very  soon  Adeline  and 
Constance  had  as  many  scholars  as  they  could  at 
tend  to,  which  brought  them  in  a  very  handsome 
income — fully  enough  to  bear  all  the  expenses  of 
the  family. 

Mr.  Eldridge,  who  was  an  active  and  correct 
business  man,  opened  a  commission  store,  and 
through  the  recommendations  of  some  of  his  old 
friends,  soon  got  consignments  to  a  large  amount, 
and  profitable  in  their  character.  Gradually  he 
began  to  feel  that  he  was  again  rising,  though  very 
slowly.  Had  the  entire  burden  of  the  family  been 
upon  him,  he  would  have  had  an  income  little,  if 
any,  beyond  his  necessary  expenses ;  but  his  daugh 
ters'  school  continued  prosperous,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  first  year  was  established  on  a  profitable  basis. 
Instead  of  having  to  spend  his  earnings,  he  had,  at 
the  end  of  the  period  just  named,  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  in  cash,  and  he  knew  very  well  how  to  turn 
it  judiciously.  The  end  of  the  second  year  found 
him  with  four  thousand  dollars,  with  a  business 
yielding  a  net  income  of  two  thousand.  Adeline, 
in  the  mean  time,  had  married  a  young  merchant 
of  some  capital,  who  was  known  as  a  careful  busi 
ness  man.  The  school,  now  conducted  by  Constance 
and  Margaretta,  had  acquired  a  reputation  in  New 
York  that  made  it  necessary  to  remove  to  a  larger 
house,  which  had  been  fitted  up  on  a  liberal  scale. 
Various  branches  were  taught,  under  the  charge  of 
competent  teachers,  and  the  whole  establishment 


ONE   OF   THE   SOLVENT   CLASS.  181 


was  too  promising  and  profitable  to  leave  room  for 
the  idea  of  abandoning  it,,  even  if  their  father 
should  again  get  up  in  the  world,  as  things  seemed 
to  promise. 

Five  years  more  passed  away,  and  in  that  time 
Mr.  Eldridge  had  been  able  to  pay  off  every  dollar 
of  the  old  claims  against  him,  and  still  found  him 
self  certainly  worth  ten  thousand  dollars,  with  a 
fair  prospect  before  him  of  going  up  pretty  rapidly. 
It  so  happened  that  his  store  was  now  alongside  of 

Mr.  A 'a.  The  latter  individual  had  never 

taken  any  notice  of  him  since  his  failure,  and  he 
had  certainly  no  objection. 

An  event  occurred  at  this  time  in  New  York  the 
remembrance  and  the  effects  of  which  will  remain 
for  many  years  to  come.  I  mean  the  great  fire.  It 
so  happened  that  but  a  few  days  before,  an  arrival 

from  the  East  Indies  had  filled  A 's  store  with 

silks  and  other  valuable  goods  to  the  amount  of 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  These  were  utterly 
consumed  in  the  terrible  conflagration.  But  it  so 
happened  that  the  fire,  in  that  direction,  was  arrested 
there,  and  Mr.  Eldridge's  store  remained  untouched. 

A 's  insurance  was  worthless,  and,  although  of 

the  "solvent  class,"  he  was  ruined. 

No  one  seemed  to  feel  for  him,  who  had  never 
had  any  regard  for  the  misfortunes  of  others. 
Gradually  the  meagre  remnant,  or  shadow  of  pro 
perty  that  remained  was  exhausted;  and,  with  his 
wife  and  daughter,  he  sank  from  the  observation  of 
those  who  had  once  known  him  as  completely  as  if 
dead  and  buried. 

It  was,  perhaps,  in  January,  some  two  years  aftcr- 
16 


182       ONE  OF  THE  SOLVENT  CLASS. 


ward,  that  a  thinly  clad  young  woman  presented 

herself  at  the  academy  for  young  ladies,  in 

street,  kept  by  Constance  and  Margaretta. 

"  Are  you  in  want  of  a  teacher,  ma'am  ?"  she  said 
to  Constance,  who  went  down  into  the  parlour  ott 
her  being  announced. 

There  was  something  strangely  familiar  in  the 
face  and  tones  of  the  speaker.  But  still,  she  did 
not  know  her. 

"  No,  Miss,  we  are  not  just  now.  What  branch 
are  you  capable  of  teaching  ?" 

"I  can  teach  music,  ma'am,  and  I  understand 
French,  and  can  speak  it  fluently." 

"Let  me  hear  you  play,"  said  Constance.  And 
the  stranger  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  performed 
with  exquisite  taste  several  pieces. 

"Do  you  sing?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have  not  practised  much  recently,  but  I  used 
to  be  thought  a  good  singer." 

"  May  I  ask  you  to  sing  something  ?  Perhaps 
we  may  make  a  vacancy  for  you,  if  you  can  sing 
well,"  said  Constance,  her  interest  in  the  stranger 
increasing  momently,  and  the  familiarity  of  her 
face  and  tones  surprising  her  more  and  more  every 
moment. 

The  young  woman  again  sat  down  to  the  instru 
ment,  and  sang  with  much  taste  and  evident  emotion 
an  old,  familiar  air,  that  sent  the  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  of  Constance  back  to  other  times  and  other 
scenes. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  with  something  of  eager 
interest,  "  may  I  ask  your  name  ?" 

"Florence  A ,"  replied  the  young  woman, 


ONE    OF   THE    SOLVENT   CLASS.  183 


dropping  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  -while  the  colour 
mounted  to  her  cheeks. 

"  Is  it  possible !  Oh,  how  you  have  changed, 
Florence !"  Constance  said,  tenderly,  taking  her 
hand. 

"  Suffering  and  poverty  will  change  any  one," 
she  replied,  bitterly.  Then,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
she  continued :  "  My  father  and  mother  are  both 
sick,  and  in  circumstances  of  great  destitution.  I 
have  tried  my  best  with  my  needle ;  but  it  won't 
do.  I  can't  get  bread  for  us  all.  As  a  last  resort 
I  have  come  to  you,  hoping  that  I  might  touch  your 
heart  with  our  distresses.  I  know  I  can  be  useful 
in  your  school,  if  you  only  have  a  place  for  me. 
This  is  all  I  ask.  Have  I  any  thing  to  hope, 
Constance  ?" 

And  the  poor  creature  stood  before  her,  with  the 
tears  streaming  down  her  thin,  pale  cheeks,  eager, 
yet  seeming  to  hope  almost  against  hope. 

"Yes,  every  thing!"  was  the  quick  response  of 
Constance. 

"May  heaven  reward  you!"  she  ejaculated,  sink 
ing  upon  a  chair. 

"  I  know  your  facility  and  correctness  in  the 
French,  and  you  are  just  the  one  I  want  to  give  the 
correct  pronunciation  to  my  class  in  that  language. 
I  will  engage  you  at  once  at  a  salary  of  five  hundred 
dollars,  and  be  glad  to  get  you." 

Florence  was  overcome  at  this  unlooked-for  result, 
so  different  fiom  what  she  had  dared  to  hope.  Mr. 
Eldridge,  coming  in  at  the  moment,  and  learning 
who  she  was,  instantly  ordered  every  thing  necessary 
to  be  sent  to  her  father  and  mother. 


184  ONE   OF   THE   SOLVENT  CLASS. 


Florence  was  at  once  installed  into  her  new  voca 
tion,  not,  however,  until  Constance  and  Margaretta 
had  made  a  change  in  her  outward  appearance ;  and 
she  filled  it  in  every  way  to  their  satisfaction. 
Sorrows  and  reverses  had  done  much  for  her,  in 
developing  the  good  and  true,  that  had  wellnigh 
been  lost. 

A  few  months  after  this  event,  Mr.  A ,  who 

had  prided  himself  upon  being  of  the  "  solvent  class" 
some  few  years  before,  was  glad  to  accept  an 
annual  salary  of  three  hundred  dollars  from  Mr. 
Eldridge,  for  merely  staying  in  his  store,  and  doing 
a  little  writing  now  and  then.  Even  this  was  very 
acceptable,  and  with  the  salary  of  Florence  helped 
to  support  his  family  comfortably. 

And  now,  we  will  only  say — Let  no  man  boast 
of  his  being  of  the  "solvent  class,"  and  vainly  sup 
pose  that  fire  nor  flood  can  reach  him.  Riches 
often  take  to  themselves  wings  and  fly  away.  The 
wealthy  man  of  to-day  is  often  the  pauper  of  to 
morrow.  This  is  the  history  of  every  year,  and  of 
all  ages.  Therefore,  let  none  be  unmerciful  to  the 
unfortunate,  for  who  can  say  that  his  turn  may  not 
come  next? 


THE   COQUETTE. 


ADA  GLENN  had  been  a  sad  trifler  in  her  time. 
Her  chief  pleasure  seemed  to  lie  in  extorting  admi 
ration  from  the  other  sex,  and  then  sporting  with 
the  feeling  she  had  awakened.  In  at  least  half  a 
dozen  instances  young  men  had  been  encouraged  to 
pay  her  attention  for  months  at  a  time,  and  when, 
confident  of  having  won  her  regard,  they  came  for 
ward  with  serious  offers  of  marriage,  she  threw  them 
from  her  with  an  indifference  that  was  both  morti 
fying  and  painful. 

But,  like  most  of  those  who  play  this  game  with 
the  feelings  of  others,  Ada  was  made  to  taste  a  cup 
as  bitter  as  any  mixed  by  her  hands  for  the  lips  of 
her  victims. 

A  young  physician  named  Bedford,  whose  pros 
pects  in  life  were  much  better  than  are  usually  pre 
sented  to  the  eyes  of  graduates  in  his  profession, 
met  Ada  one  evening,  and  was  exceedingly  pleased 
with  her — and  no  less  pleased  was  Ada  with  the 
young  physician.  A  wish  to  make  a  good  impies- 
sion,  added  to  her  usual  habit  of  putting  on  her  best 
grace  when  in  company  with  young  men,  made  Ada 
more  than  usually  interesting,  and  when  Dr.  Bed 
ford  separated  from  the  bewitching  young  girl,  he 
was  completely  enamoured.  He  took  an  early 
opportunity  to  call  upon  her,  and  was  received 
J  16*  185 


186  THE   COQUETTE. 

in  a  manner  that  encouraged  him  to  repeat  his 
visits. 

Never  were  visits  more  agreeable  to  any  one  than 
were  those  of  Dr.  Bedford  to  Ada  Glenn.  But  the 
old  spirit  had  not  died  out,  and  really  flattered  as 
she  was  by  the  young  man's  attentions,  Ada  was 
tempted  to  give  him  a  specimen  of  her  power  and 
independence. 

No  very  long  time  elapsed  ere  Dr.  Bedford  laid 
his  heart  at  Ada's  feet.  With  a  thrill  of  pleasure 
could  she  have  accepted  the  proffered  gift  of  love ; 
but  to  yield  at  once  seemed  like  becoming  too  easy 
a  prize,  and  she  therefore  affected  profound  asto 
nishment  at  the  doctor's  proposal ;  treated  it  rather 
lightly,  and  deeply  wounded  his  naturally  sensitive 
and  independent  feelings  by  too  marked  an  exhibi 
tion  of  disdain. 

Doctor  Bedford  retired  with  his  mind  in  a  fever 
of  excitement.  His  .admiration  of,  and  love  for 
Ada,  had  been  of  the  warmest  character.  Judging 
from  her  manner,  he  had  felt  warranted  in  believ 
ing  that  the  regard  he  felt  for  her  was  fully  recipro 
cated  ;  and  when  he  approached  her  with  a  confes 
sion  of  what  was  in  his  heart,  he  was  prepared  for 
any  reception  but  the  one  he  received.  To  be 
repulsed  then,  coldly,  proudly,  and  almost  con 
temptuously,  was  to  receive  a  blow  of  the  severest 
kind,  and  one,  the  pain  of  which  he  was  not  likely 
soon  to  forget. 

From  the  dwelling  of  Ada,  Dr.  Bedford  retired 
to  his  office  with  his  mind  greatly  excited.  There 
he  found  a  young  friend  with  whom  he  was  intimate, 
and  to  whom,  as  he  could  not  hide  his  feelings,  he 


,  THE   COQUETTE.  187 

communicated  in  confidence  the  result  of  his  in 
terview  with  Ada.  To  his  surprise,  the  friend 
said — 

"  I  can  hardly  pity  you,  doctor.  I  saw  you  were 
pleased  with  that  gay  flirt,  who  is  fascinating  enough ; 
hut  I  did  not  dream  that  you  were  serious  in  your 
attentions  to  one  known  everywhere  as  a  most 
heartless  coquette." 

Dr.  Bedford  looked  surprised.  "Are  you  in 
earnest  ?"  said  he. 

"  In  earnest  ?  Certainly  !  Didn't  you  know 
that  this  was  her  character  ?" 

"I  had  not  the  most  remote  suspicion." 

"  Strange  that  it  shouldn't  have  come  to  your 
ears  !  I  can  point  you  to  three  that  she  has  jilted 
within  my  own  knowledge." 

"  If  that  is  her  character,"  said  the  doctor,  rally 
ing  himself  with  a  strong  effort  of  self-control,  and 
speaking  in  a  composed  and  resolute  voice,  "  I  will 
at  once  obliterate  her  image  from  my  mind.  It  ia 
unworthy  to  rest  there.  I  did  not  love  Ada,  but  a 
fair  ideal  of  womanly  virtue  that  I  vainly  believed 
she  embodied." 

"  You  are  right.  She  is  not  worthy  of  you,  my 
friend,  beautiful,  intelligent,  and  interesting  as 
she  is." 

"  No.  She  is  utterly  unworthy.  Fortunate  am 
I  that  she  did  not  accept  my  offer." 

It  required,  on  the  part  of  Ada,  a  strong  effort 
to  assume  toward  Dr.  Bedford  a  false  exterior,  and 
when  he  withdrew  from  her  presence,  composed  and 
dignified  in  his  manner,  she  more  than  half  regret 
ted  her  folly.  But  she  forced  back  this  feeling  with 


188  THE    COQUETTE. 

a  gay  smile  and  a  toss  of  the  head,  saying,  half 
aloud — 

"  He'll  be  here  again  before  a  week  goes  by." 

But  Ada  was  slightly  in  error.  The  week  passed 
•without  bringing  her  lover.  And  so  went  by  two, 
three,  and  four  weeks.  But,  vain  of  her  power  over 
the  other  sex,  Ada  still  endeavoured  to  maintain  a 
confident  spirit,  though  there  were  times  that  the 
sudden  thought  that  Dr.  Bedford  would  never  again 
seek  to  win  her  favour,  made  the  blood  gather  with 
a  chill  around  her  heart. 

About  this  time  a  friend  gave  a  little  fancy-dress 
party,  and  Ada  learned,  much  to  her  real  delight, 
that  the  individual,  who  of  all  others  had  most 
struck  her  fancy,  was  to  be  present.  This  was  to 
afford  the  first  opportunity  for  meeting,  since  her 
half  haughty  repulse,  the  man  who  had  offered  her, 
in  all  sincerity,  a  true  and  loving  heart. 

An  overweening  vanity  made  Ada  confident  of 
her  power  with  the  sterner  sex ;  and  she  believed 
that  only  a  slight  yielding  effort  on  her  part  was 
necessary  to  bring  the  doctor  again  to  her  side. 

Choosing  her  costume  for  the  evening,  Ada 
arrayed  herself  with  great  care,  and  in  a  style  that 
she  believed  would  attract  attention.  The  fashion 
of  her  dress  was  that  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
the  material  a  rich  old  brocade,  in  which  her  grand 
mother  had  danced  the  minuet  many  a  time  in  her 
younger  days. 

Calm  in  her  conscious  power,  Ada  joined  the  gay 
company  at  her  friend's,  and  her  quick  eyes  soon 
made  known  the  fact  that  Dr.  Bedford  was  already 
present.  Her  heart  beat  quicker,  and  the  colour 


THE   COQUETTE.  189 


on  her  cheeks  grew  deeper ;  but  no  one  could  read 
in  her  well-schooled  face  a  trace  of  what  was  pass 
ing  in  her  mind.  No  long  time  passed-  before  the 
young  doctor  was  thrown  near  her,  so  near  that  a 
sign  of  recognition  became  necessary.  He  spoke 
to  her,  but  in  a  manner  that  sent  a  nervous  chill  to 
her  heart.  Not  that  he  was  studiedly  polite  or  cold  ; 
not  that  he  manifested  resentment ;  but  in  his  eye, 
voice,  face,  and  manner,  was  a  language  she  could 
read,  and  it  told  her  that  to  him  she  was  no  longer 
an  object  of  interest. 

For  this  she  was,  of  all  things,  least  prepared. 
She  had  never  felt  toward  any  one  as  she  felt 
toward  this  young  man ;  and  now,  when  the  first 
well-grounded  fear  of  losing  him  stole  through  her 
bosom,  she  became  inwardly  agitated,  and  in  spite 
of  every  effort  to  control  herself,  manifested  too 
plainly  the  fact  that  she  was  ill  at  ease. 

Fancy  parties  were  novelties  at  the  time,  and  all 
except  Ada,  who  usually  led  off  on  festive  occasions, 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  hour.  Even  Dr.  Bed 
ford  appeared  to  enjoy  himself  as  much  as  any. 
But  the  beautiful  coquette,  whose  peculiar  style  of 
costume  attracted  all  eyes,  had,  for  once,  lost  the 
gay  exterior  for  which  she  was  ever  distinguished, 
and  there  were  but  few  present  by  whom  this  was 
not  remarked. 

Once  or  twice  Ada  was  thrown  directly  into  the 
company  of  Dr.  Bedford,  when  he  treated  her  with 
an  ease  and  politeness  that,  more  than  any  thing 
else,  tended  to  extinguish  the  hope  that  had  arisen 
into  a  flame  in  her  heart.  Had  he  manifested  any 
emotion ;  had  he  looked  grave,  troubled,  indignant, 


190  THE   COQUETTE. 


proud,  haughty,  or  any  thing  else  but  calmly  indif 
ferent  and  self-possessed,  Ada  would  have  felt  sure 
of  her  power  over  him.  But  a  perception  of  the 
real  truth  was  as  distinct  to  her  as  if  the  most 
emphatic  words,  sealing  her  fate,  had  been  uttered 
in  her  ears. 

Earlier  than  the  rest  Ada  retired,  unable  longer 
to  control  herself  as  she  could  wish,  and  unwilling 
to  expose,  to  eyes  already  too  observant,  the  change 
that  had  come  over  her  feelings. 

From  that  hour,  Ada  Glenn  ceased  to  be  the  gay, 
buoyant,  attractive  girl  who  had  extorted  admira 
tion  from  so  many,  and  trifled,  in  her  vain  pride 
and  thoughtlessness,  with  all.  She  rarely  went  into 
company,  and  then  her  sober  mien  left  her  usually 
in  the  background.  The  lively  belle,  in  a  few 
months,  ceased  to  attract  attention ;  and  young  men 
who  had  been  captives  at  her  feet,  wondered  why 
she  had  exercised  such  power  over  them. 

As  for  Bedford,  he  erred  in  believing  that,  with 
a  single  dash  of  the  will,  he  had  effaced  for  ever  the 
image  of  Ada  from  his  mind.  Wounded  pride  and 
honest  indignation  had  raised  him,  in  a  moment, 
superior  to  the  weakness  of  his  nature.  But  a  long 
period  did  not  elapse  before  line  after  line  began  to 
reappear,  and  before  he  was  really  aware  of  what 
was  going  on  within,  he  found  himself  gazing  upon 
the  image  of  the  maiden  distinct  as  ever  upon  his 
heart. 

This  discovery,  when  first  made,  was  far  from 
being  pleasant  to  the  young  man  ;  and  he  turned 
from  the  fair  image  with  impatient  scorn.  But  turn 
which  way  he  would,  it  was  still  before  him.  Occa- 


THE    COQUETTE.  191 


sionally,  he  heard  of  Ada  as  greatly  changed,  and 
sometimes  he  was  thrown  into  company  with  her, 
when  the  change  was  apparent  to  his  own  eyes. 
These  meetings,  whenever  they  took  place,  left  him 
in  a  musing,  sober  state.  There  was  something 
about  Ada  that  still  interested  him ;  and  when,  as 
it  occasionally  happened,  he  looked  suddenly  toward 
her,  and  met  her  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  him  with 
a  sad,  earnest,  tender  look,  he  had  feelings  that  he 
was  hardly  able  to  understand. 

Thus  affairs  progressed  until,  unexpectedly,  the 
young  couple  found  themselves  brought  together  in 
a  pic-nic.  Dr.  Bedford  was  less  displeased  at  this 
circumstance  than  he  would  have  been  a  few  months 
earlier ;  but  he  was  careful  not  to  throw  himself 
purposely  in  Ada's  way,  for  his  self-possession  and 
cool  indifference,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  no 
longer  existed.  The  thought  of  her,  even,  had 
now  power  to  disturb  the  pulsations  of  his  heart. 

The  pleasant  day  had  drawn  nearly  to  a  close.  Two 
or  three  times  Bedford  had  been  brought  into  such 
close  contact  with  Ada,  that  he  could  not,  without 
appearing  rude,  have  avoided  speaking  a  few  words 
to  her.  On  these  occasions  he  said  little ;  but  it 
was  impossible  to  help  observing,  in  the  manner  of 
her  replies,  in  the  tones,  and  in  the  expression  of 
her  countenance,  something  that  told  him,  as 
plainly  as  language  could  have  uttered  it,  that  she 
deeply  repented  of  her  former  conduct  toward 
him. 

"It  is  too  late,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself, 
with  some  bitterness  of  feeling,  as  he  reflected  upon 
what  it  was  impossible  not  to  perceive.  And  even 


192  THE   COQUETTE. 


as  he  said  this,  there  arose  extenuating  arguments 
in  his  mind  that  he  in  vain  strove  to  expel. 

Disturbed  by  such  thoughts  and  feelings,  Dr. 
Bedford  wandered  away  from  the  gay  party,  and 
remained  alone  for  nearly  an  hour.  As  he  returned, 
he  came  suddenly  upon  Ada,  seated  in  a  pensive 
attitude,  just  above  a  little  dashing  waterfall,  down 
into  which  she  was  looking.  She  was  so  entirely 
lost  in  the  scene,  or,  more  probably,  in  thoughts 
which  it  was  impossible  to  drive  out  of  her  mind, 
that  she  did  not  observe  the  young  man's  approach. 
Bedford  paused  suddenly,  and  his  first  impulse  was 
to  retreat.  But,  not  being  able  to  get  his  consent 
to  do  this,  he  after  a  little  hesitation  advanced,  and 
when  within  a  few  paces  roused  her  from  her  reverie 
by  a  few  lightly  uttered  words.  Ada  turned  with  a 
start,  while  a  deep  crimson  mantled  her  face.  It 
was  some  time  before  she  could  command  herself 
sufficiently  to  reply  with  any  thing  like  composure, 
and  even  then  her  voice  slightly  trembled. 

Few  words  passed  between  them  as,  side  by  side, 
they  slowly  returned  to  where  they  had  left  their 
companions,  for  both  were  afraid  to  trust  themselves 
to  speak.  But  that  meeting  had  decided  the  fate 
of  both.  Before  a  week  elapsed,  Dr.  Bedford, 
breaking  through  pride  and  every  other  restraining 
sentiment,  visited  Ada,  and,  before  leaving  her, 
renewed  his  offer  of  marriage,  which  was  accepted 
amid  a  gush  of  joyful  tears.  Deeply  had  Ada  suf 
fered  through  her  folly,  and  from  her  suffering  she 
had  come  forth  a  purer,  truer,  and  better  woman. 

There  are  a  few  like  Ada.  But  rarely  does  the 
vain  coquette  escape  with  so  brief  a  period  of  suf- 


MR.  WINKLEMAN   AT   HOME.  193 


fering.  Usually,  with  her,  it  is  a  life-long  season 
of  sorrow  and  repentance.  After  rejecting,  with 
heartless  levity,  her  worthy  suitors,  she  yields  her 
hand  at  last  to  the  most  unworthy ;  and,  unblessed 
by  true  affection,  goes  wearily  on  her  way  through 
the  world,  glad  when  the  hour  comes  in  which  she 
may  lay  down  her  burdens,  and  find  rest  and  peace 
in  the  quiet  grave. 


MR.  WINKLEMAN  AT  HOME. 

MR.  WINKLEMAN,  after  eating  his  breakfast  in 
silence,  arose  without  a  remark  to  any  one,  and  left 
the  room  in  which  his  family  were  assembled  at  the 
morning  meal.  Taking  up  his  hat,  he  passed  from 
the  house.  As  he  came  into  the  open  air  and  made 
two  or  three  deep  inspirations,  in  the  unconscious 
effort  to  relieve  his  bosom  from  a  sense  of  oppres 
sion,  he  became  very  distinctly  aware  that  a  heavy 
weight  rested  upon  his  feelings. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?  Why  should  I 
feel  troubled  ?" 

Thus  Mr.  Winkleman  inquired  of  himself.  And 
as  he  walked  along,  in  the  direction  of  the  store, 
with  his  eyes  cast  down,  he  searched  about  in 
thought  for  the  cause  of  his  unpleasant  state  of 
feelings. 

"  There's  nothing  in  my  business  to  trouble  me." 
So  he  talked  with  himself.  "  Every  thing  is  going 
17 


194  MR.  WINKLEMAN   AT   HOME. 


on  prosperously.  No  heavy  payments  for  a  month 
to  come.  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

Search  in  this  direction  not  revealing  the  cause 
of  uneasiness,  Mr.  Winkleman's  thoughts  went  back 
to  the  home  he  had  left  so  unceremoniously — with 
such  an  apparent  indifference  toward  his  wife  and 
children.  This  was  evidently  coming  nearer  the 
source  of  trouble,  for  the  weight  on  his  feelings 
grew  more  oppressive.  And  now  he  was  conscious 
of  having  been  in  a  very  uncomfortable,  unsocial 
state,  during  all  breakfast  time.  Why  was  this  ? 
Ah !  It  was  all  clear  now — a  sigh  attested  the 
discovery. 

Mr.  Winkleman,  though  a  well-meaning  man,  and 
kind  in  the  main  to  his  family,  was  sensitive  to  little 
incongruities  and  annoyances,  and  not  over  patient 
when  they  occurred.  He  was  apt  to  speak  sharply 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment — always  to  the  disturb 
ance  of  his  own  peace  after  the  excitement  of  the 
occasion  was  over. 

On  this  particular  morning,  his  daughter  Fanny, 
a  bright,  playful,  rather  thoughtless  girl,  in  her 
thirteenth  year,  committed  some  act  of  rudeness, 
for  which  he  reproved  her  in  so  harsh  a  manner, 
that  the  child  burst  into  tears. 

The  instant  Mr.  Winkleman  spoke,  he  felt  that 
he  had  done  wrong.  Experience,  as  well  as  reason, 
had  long  ago  made  clear  to  his  mind  the  folly  of 
harsh  or  fretful  reproof.  The  clear  conviction,  in 
a  parent's  mind,  that  he  has  wronged  his  child,  is 
always  attended  with  pain.  This  conviction  was 
felt  by  Mr.  Winkleman,  and  pain  followed.  Fanny 
glided,  weeping,  from  the  room,  and  the  erring 


MR.  WINKLEMAN   AT   HOME.  195 


father  silently — almost  moodily — went  on  to  com 
plete  his  toilet.  While  thus  engaged,  some  article 
of  dress  was  found  not  to  be  in  suitable  order. 
Already  disturbed  in  mind,  this  newly  exciting 
cause  prompted  the  utterance  of  an  impatient  ejacu 
lation,  with  an  added  word  of  censure  toward  his 
wife  for  neglect. 

Mrs.  Winkleman  felt  his  unkind  manner  and 
expression — what  true  wife  does  not  feel  rebuke  or 
censure  keenly  ? — and  though  prompt  to  repair  the 
neglect,  showed  that  she  was  hurt. 

Here  lay  the  whole  secret.  Mr.  Winkleman  had 
permitted  himself  to  feel  and  to  speak  unkindly, 
first  to  his  child,  and  then  to  his  wife.  Such  a  state 
of  feeling,  in  a  man  like  Mr.  Winkleman,  could  not 
exist  without  of  itself  producing  an  unhappy  frame 
of  mind ;  but  when  to  this  was  added  the  remem 
brance  of  harsh  and  hasty  speech  toward  his  wife 
and  one  of  his  children,  with  a  perception  of  their 
mental  pain,  cause  enough  for  all  his  uncomfortable 
sensations  were  apparent. 

"  I  wish  I  had  more  control  of  myself,"  said  Mr. 
Winkleman,  with  a  sigh. 

He  felt  worse,  now  that  all  was  clear  to  his  mind, 
for  self-condemnation  was  added. 

"I  must  control  myself  better."  Good  purposes 
were  forming,  and  these  always  have  a  tranquillizing 
effect.  "  Harsh  words  and  an  unkind  manner  do 
little,  if  any  good.  If  things  go  wrong,  these  act 
feebly  as  correctives.  I  must,  and  will  control  my 
self  better." 

By  the  time  Mr.  Winkleman  arrived  at  his  store 
he  was  able  to  dismiss  these  thoughts,  and  to  enter 

"' 


196  MR.  WINKLEMAN  AT   HOME. 


with  his  usual  earnestness  upon  the  business  of  the 
day. 

On  turning  his  steps  homeward,  at  dinner  time, 
thought  preceded,  and  something  of  the  oppression 
from  which  he  had  suffered  in  the  morning  now 
rested  on  his  feelings.  He  remembered  how  it  was 
when  he  left,  and  imagination  could  realize  no 
change  in  the  aspect  of  things.  He  saw  the  glist 
ening  eyes  and  grieving  face  of  his  child,  and  the 
sober,  almost  sad  countenance  of  his  wife.  To  meet 
these,  and  yet  assume  a  cheerful  manner,  was  for 
him  no  light  achievement.  But  it  must,  if  possible, 
be  done.  How  relieved  he  was,  when  Fanny,  his 
light-hearted  little  girl,  met  him  with  a  sunny  face, 
and  claimed  her  usual  kiss.  Mrs.  Winkleman  smiled 
too,  as  pleasantly  as  if  there  had  been  no  morning 
cloud.  Yet,  even  from  this  he  suffered  rebuke. 
There  was  a  generous  denial  of  self,  and  a  loving 
forgiveness  on  their  part,  that  humbled  and  sobered 
him.  Ah  !  if  he  could  only  forget  the  past,  so  that 
he  might  enter  into  the  joy  of  the  present.  But 
that  was  impossible.  Whatever  is  written  on  the 
memory  in  pain,  leaves  too  vivid  a  record. 

Yet,  there  was  one  thing  he  could  do,  and  that 
was  to  speak  and  act  affectionately  and  kindly. 
How  potent  was  the  charm  that  lay  in  his  words 
and  manner !  What  a  new  sphere  of  life  seemed 
to  pervade  the  little  home  circle.  The  morning 
cloud  had  passed,  and  the  risen  sun  exhaled  the 
early  dew. 

But  ere  the  dinner  hour  was  over,  a  touch  dis 
cordant  jarred  the  pleasant  harmony.  Fanny  hap- 


MR.  WINKLEMAN  AT   HOME.  197 


pened  to  overturn  a  glass  of  water,  at  which  Mr. 
Winkleman  said  impatiently,  and  with  a  frown — 

"  What  a  careless  girl  you  are  !" 

The  blood  mounted  to  Fanny's  cheeks  and  brow, 
and  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered  by  Mr.  Winkle- 
man,  ere  he  was  sobered  by  regret. 

"  Try  and  be  more  careful,  Fanny,"  said  he,  in  a 
kinder  voice. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  father." 

Fanny's  lip  quivered.  She  tried  to  regain  her 
self-possession ;  but  the  very  kindness  in  her  father's 
voice  helped,  now,  to  break  down  her  feelings,  and 
she  sobbed  aloud.  Mr.  Winkleman  didn't  like  this. 
His  sudden  irritation  had  clouded  his  perceptions, 
and  he  did  not,  therefore,  see  into  the  mind  of  his 
child,  and  comprehend  her  state.  He  attributed 
rather  to  anger,  or  perverseness,  than  of  wounded 
feelings  that  would  express  their  pain,  the  tears  of 
his  child. 

"I  don't  see  any  use  in  your  crying  about  it," 
said  Mr.  Winkleman,  a  little  sternly. 

Fanny's  sobs  increased.  Finding  it  impossible 
to  control  herself,  she  left  the  table,  and  retired 
from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Winkleman'a  eyes  followed,  with  a  sad  look, 
her  child  ;  and  over  her  whole  countenance  gathered 
a  sober  hue,  as  she  vanished  through  the  door.  Mr. 
Winkleman  saw  the  change  his  impatient  temper 
had  wrought,  and  his  feelings  took  even  a  darker 
shade ;  for  self-reproaches,  stinging  sharply,  were 
added  to  mortification. 

Alas  !  How  all  was  marred  again — marred  through 
17* 


198  MR.  WINK1EMAN   AT   HOME. 


Mr.  Winkleraan's  unfortunate  lack  of  self-control. 
His  heart  was  heavier  when  he  left  his  dwelling  and 
took  his  way  to  his  store,  than  in  the  morning.  He 
did  not  now  have  to  search  ahout  in  his  mind  for 
the  causes  that  produced  the  weight  upon  his  feel 
ings.  Alas  !  they  were  too  apparent. 

"  I  must  do  better  than  this.  It  is  unmanly — 
nay  worse,  unjust — even  worse  than  that — cruel," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  sat  down  in  his  private 
office,  and  mused  alone.  Half  of  the  afternoon  was 
spent  in  self-reproaches,  repentance,  and  the  forma 
tion  of  good  resolutions.  He  reviewed  the  past 
through  many  years,  and  saw  how,  times  almost 
without  number,  he  had,  through  impatience  and 
want  of  a  thoughtful  regard  for  his  wife  and  children, 
destroyed  their  happiness  and  his  own. 

"  I  once  heard  a  lady  say,  not  knowing  that  the 
words  would  reach  my  ears,  that  Mr.  Winkleman 
was  a  good  husband  and  father.  I  was  flattered 
exceedingly,  and  prided  myself  on  the  truth  of  her 
remark.  But  was  the  remark  really  true  ?  Alas  ! 
I  fear  not.  The  captious,  impatient,  sharp-speak 
ing  husband  and  father,  merits  not  such  a  com 
mendation." 

Humbled  in  his  own  eyes,  and  grieving  for  the 
pain  he  had  occasioned  in  his  family,  Mr.  Winkle 
man  returned  home  at  the  close  of  the  day  with  a 
heavy  heart.  He  wished  to  bring  sunshine  into  his 
dwelling  ;  but,  unable  to  rally  himself  and  put  on  a 
cheerful  countenance,  he  felt  that  his  presence  would 
be  far  mere  likely  to  darken  than  brighten  the 
spirits  of  his  wife  and  children. 

As  Mr.  Winkleman  placed  his  hand  upon  the  door 


MR.  WINKLEMAN  AT  HOME.  199 


to  open  it,  he  experienced  no  sense  of  pleasure. 
Fanny's  tearful  eyes  were  before  him,  and  her  sobs 
yet  rung  in  his  ears.  With  almost  noiseless  step  he 
entered,  and  was  going  quietly  up  stairs,  when  he 
met  his  daughter  coming  down. 

"Well,  Fanny!"  He  forced  a  smile,  and  com 
pelled  his  voice  to  assume  a  gentle,  loving  tone. 

Instantly,  Fanny's  arms  were  around  his  neck, 
and  her  warm  lips  on  his  cheek.  He  could  not  but 
return  the  kiss,  nor  help  laying  his  hand  upon  her 
head,  and  toying  affectionately  with  her  sunny  curls. 
When  he  entered  the  room  where  his  wife  was  sit 
ting,  Fanny  walked  by  his  side,  with  both  her  hands 
claspihg  his  arm. 

If  a  cloud  rested  on  the  spirit  of  his  wife  when 
he  entered,  he  saw  not  its  shadow  in  her  face. 
Light  from  his  own  countenance  was  reflected  back 
from  hers  in  sunny  brightness. 

"I  must  keep  this  sky  undimmed,"  said  Mr. 
Winkleman  to  himself.  "It  has  been  dark  to-day; 
but  mine  was  the  hand  that  shrouded  it  in  gloom." 

Yet,  ere  half  an  hour  passed,  his  impatient  spirit 
was  nigh  overshadowing  their  firmament.  Neither 
his  wife  nor  children  were  perfect — and  his  weak 
ness  was  looking  for  entire  harmony,  order,  and 
good  taste  in  all  their  words  and  deeds.  But  suffer 
ing  had  brought  true  perceptions  of  his  own  error, 
and  these  made  him  wiser.  He  controlled  himself, 
and  when  it  was  right  to  use  words  of  correction  to 
his  children,  they  were  spoken  with  mildness.  He 
could  but  wonder  at  their  hidden  power. 

What  a  pleasant  evening  was  that  which  closed 
on  so  dark  a  day. 


200  MR.  WINKLEMAN  AT   HOME. 

Morning  found  Mr.  Winkleman  in  danger  of 
relapsing  into  his  old  state.  But  the  memory  of 
former  pain  was  potent  to  help  his  quick  returning 
good  resolutions.  Fanny  jarred  his  feelings  with 
some  annoying  act  of  carelessness  or  disorder,  and 
the  sharp  reproof  was  on  his  tongue.  But  he  re 
strained  its  utterance.  When  entire  self-control 
was  his,  he  gently  pointed  out  to  her  wherein  she 
was  wrong.  With  a  prompt  apology  and  a  promise 
to  do  better,  Fanny  corrected  her  error. 

At  the  breakfast  table,  Mr.  Winkleman  did  not 
suffer  himself  to  be  thrown  off  of  his  guard.  He  had 
not  enjoyed  a  meal  so  well  for  weeks,  and  could  not 
help  remarking  how  light  and  cheerful  he  felt,  as, 
on  rising  from  the  table,  and  saying  good  morning, 
almost  gayly,  he  left  the  house,  and  went  out  into 
the  street  with  a  light  air  murmuring  on  his  lips. 

"Good  humour."  What  a  power  it  possesses! 
and  what  a  power  there  is  in  gentle  words  !  Mr. 
Winkleman  proved  this,  not  only  on  the  present, 
but  on  many  after  occasions ;  and  so  may  we  all 
prove  it. 

Reader,  do  you  often,  like  Mr.  Winkleman,  go 
out  from  your  home  with  a  weight  on  your  feel 
ings  ?  Look  again  into  the  mirror  we  hold  up,  and 
see  if  you  cannot  discover  the  cause.  The  fault,  as 
was  the  case  with  Mr.  Winkleman,  may  be  all  in 
yourself. 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 


PART   FIRST. — THE   MAN. 

THE  air  is  soft,  and  laden  with  fragrance  from 
the  newly-mown  fields ;  amid  the  leafy  branches 
of  old  trees  are  nestling  the  weary  birds ;  the  val 
leys  lie  in  deepening  shadows,  though  golden  sun 
light  lingers  yet  upon  the  hilltops.  It  is  the 
closing  hour  of  a  lovely  (Jay  in  June. 

Hark !  a  manly  voice  has  broken  the  pervading 
stillness. 

"  Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  is  no  place  like  home." 

How  the  fine  tones  swell  upward !  How  in  every 
modulation  is  perceived  some  varied  expression  of 
the  sentiment  conveyed  in  the  words !  The  man  is 
singing  from  heart-fulness.  Home  is  to  him  the 
dearest  spot  on  earth — the  loveliest  place  in  all  the 
wide,  wide  world,  humble  though  it  be  !  Listen  ! — 

"  An  exile  from  home,  pleasures  dazzle  in  vain, 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatch'd  cottage  again." 

There  he  comes,  just  emerging  from  that  little 
grove  of  cedars,  where  the  road  winds  by  the  plea 
sant  brookside.  How  erect  his  form  !  How  elastic 
his  step !  What  a  light  is  thrown  back  from  his 
bare  and  ample  forehead ! 

201 


202       THE  MAN  AND  TOE  DEMON. 


Yonder,  where  the  valley  seems  to  close,  but,  in 
reality,  only  bends  around  a  mountain  spur,  to  open 
in  new  and  varied  beauty,  stands  a  neat  cottage, 
its  doors  and  windows  vine-wreathed  and  flower- 
gemmed.  Above  this  home  of  love  and  peace  are 
spread  the  leafy  branches  of  a  century-old  elm.  In 
summer,  this  guardian  tree  receives  into  its  ample 
bosom  the  fierce  sun-rays,  and  tempers  them  with 
coolness.  In  winter,  though  shorn  of  its  verdure, 
it  breaks  the  fury  of  the  strong  north-west,  so  that 
it  falls  not  too  rudely  upon  the  nestling  cottage 
beneath. 

In  this  sweet  and  sheltered  spot  are  the  house 
hold  treasures  of  Henry  Erskine.  He  has  gathered 
them  here,  because  his  love  seeks  for  them  all  ex 
ternal  blessings  his  hand  can  give.  Years  agone, 
this  cottage  was  the  home  of  his  gentle  wife.  Here 
he  had  wooed  her,  and  here  won  her  trusting  heart. 
Time  wore  on — death  and  misfortune  scattered  the 
old  household,  and  the  pleasant  homestead  passed 
into  the  hands  of  strangers.  On  the  day  it  was 
sold,  Erskine  coming  suddenly  upon  his  young 
wife,  found  her  in  tears.  He  pressed  to  know  the 
cause.  Half  was  revealed  and  half  but  guessed. 
Love  prompted  the  resolution  that  was  instantly 
formed.  Three  years  afterward,  Erskine,  through 
untiring  labour  and  self-denial,  had  saved  enough 
to  purchase  back  the  cottage,  into  which,  with  a 
new  and  higher  sense  of  enjoyment,  he  gathered 
his  fruitful  vine,  and  the  olive-branches  already 
bending  above  and  around  him. 

The  best  husband,  the  kindest  father,  the  truest 
man  in  all  that  pleasant  valley,  was  Henry  Erskine. 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       203 


He  had  been  absent  a  few  days  on  business,  and 
now  returning  to  his  home-treasures,  it  was  from 
the  fulness  of  his  heart  that  he  sung — 

"  Home,  home — sweet,  sweet  home ! 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home." 

And,  as  he  sung  on,  and  strode  forward,  quick, 
eagerly  listening  ears  caught  the  music  of  his  well- 
known  voice,  and  ere  he  had  reached,  by  many 
hundred  yards,  the  little  white  gate  that  opened 
from  the  road  to  his  dwelling,  tiny  arms  were 
tightly  clasping  his  neck,  and  soft  lips  pressing  his 
cheek  and  forehead. 

Oh !  what  gushing  gladness  was  in  his  heart ! 
How  large  it  seemed  in  his  bosom !  How  full  of 
good  desires  and  bounteous  wishes  for  the  loved 
ones  who  made  his  home  a  paradise ! 

"Dear  Anna!"  How  many  times  he  said  this, 
as  with  both  hands  laid  upon  the  fair  temples  of 
his  happy  wife,  he  smoothed  back  her  raven  hair, 
and  gazed  into  the  loving  depths  of  her  dark 
bright  eyes  ! 

The  sunniest  day  in  the  whole  calendar  of  their 
lives  was  this.  As  Erskine  sat  amid  his  children, 
with  their  gentle-hearted  mother  at  his  side,  he  felt 
that  the  cup  of  his  happiness  was  full  to  over 
flowing. 

And  yet — ah  !  why  are  we  forced  to  write  it ! — 
ere  the  evening  of  that  glad  reunion  closed,  a  faint 
shadow  had  fallen  on  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Erskine. 
She  had  been  aware  of  an  unusual  degree  of  elation 
on  the  part  of  her  husband  in  rejoining  them  after 
his  brief  absence,  but  thought  of  it  only  as  an  ex- 


204       THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 


cess  of  gladness  at  getting  home  again.  Two  or 
three  neighbours  called  in  later  in  the  evening, 
when,  in  agreement  with  a  very  bad  custom  then 
prevailing,  something  to  drink  was  brought  forth, 
and  before  the  neighbours  retired,  the  undue  eleva 
tion  of  spirits  noticed  by  the  wife  of  Mr.  Erskine, 
had  increased  to  a  degree  that  left  her  in  no  doubt 
as  to  its  source. 

"  How  sober  you  look,  Anna  dear !"  said  Mr. 
Erskine,  with  his  usual  tenderness  of  manner,  on 
the  next  morning.  "  Are  you  well  ?" 

"Oh  yes.  But  what  a  strange  and  terrible 
dream  I  had !  I  can't  shake  off  the  effects.  And 
yet  I  know  it  was  only  a  dream." 

"A  dream! — Is  that  all?"  said  Erskine,  with  a 
smile.  "But  what  was  it,  dear?  It  must  have 
been  something  terrible,  indeed,  to  leave  a  shadow 
upon  your  spirits." 

"  A  very  strange  dream,  Henry.  I  thought  we 
were  sitting  at  the  table  just  as  we  were  sitting  last 
evening,  with  our  pleasant  neighbours  around  us. 
You  had  just  taken  a  glass  from  your  lips,  after 
drinking  my  health,  as  you  did  then.  You  placed 
it  near  me,  so  that  I  could  see  into  it  to  the  bot 
tom,  where  still  remained  a  small  portion  of  liquor. 
Something  fixed  my  gaze,  and  presently  I  saw,  in 
miniature,  a  perfect  image  of  your  face.  Surprised, 
I  looked  up ;  but  you  and  all  the  company  were 
gone  !  I  was  alone,  in  a  strange,  desolate,  meagrely 
furnished  room.  The  table  was  still  beside  me,  and 
on  it  yet  remained  the  glass,  toward  which  my  eyes 
turned  with  a  fascination  I  could  not  resist.  Into 
the  liquor  at  the  bottom  I  gazed,  and  there,  more 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       205 


distinct  than  at  first,  P  saw  your  face ;  but  now  the 
eyes  had  a  sharp,  eager  look,  that  seemed  to  go 
through  me  with  a  sense  of  pain.  The  tender 
arching  of  your  lips  was  gone,  and  they  were  drawn 
against  the  teeth  with  a  cruel  expression.  I  feel 
the  shudder  still  which  then  ran  through  my  heart. 
0  Henry !  a  look  such  as  I  then  saw  on  your  face 
would  kill  me !" 

And  the  wife  of  Henry  Erskine,  overcome  with 
feeling,  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and 
sobbed. 

"Dear  Anna!  Forget  the  wretched  dream!" 
said  Erskine,  as  he  drew  his  arm  tightly  around 
her.  "  I  wonder  that  a  mere  phantom  of  the  night 
can  have  such  power  to  move  you." 

"But  that  was  not  all,"  resumed  Mrs.  Erskine, 
as  soon  as  she  had  grown  calm  enough  to  speak. 
"  The  face  now  began  to  rise  up  from  the  top  of 
the  glass,  rounding  as  it  rose,  until  a  head  and 
well-defined  neck  stood  above  the  vessel;  and  all 
the  while  a  malignant  change  was  progressing  on 
the  countenance.  More  horrible  still !  The  glass 
suddenly  enlarged  enormously  its  dimensions,  and 
in  it  I  now  saw,  in  fearful  coils,  the  body  of  a  ser 
pent,  bearing  up  higher  and  higher  the  face  and 
head  of  a  man.  Another  instant,  and  horrid,  slimy 
folds  were  around  my  neck  and  body !  In  their 
tightening,  suffocating  clasp,  I  awoke.  0  Henry! 
was  it  not  terrible  ?  What  could  have  excited  such 
a  phantasy?" 

"  A  horrible  nightmare,"  said  Erskine ;  "  a  night 
mare  only.  And  yet,  how  strange  it  is  that  such  an 
18 


206       THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 


image  found  entrance  into  your  innocent,  guarded 
mind!" 

It  was  all  in  vain  that  Mrs.  Erskine  strove, 
throughout  that  day,  to  drive  the  shadow  from  her 
heart.  The  dream  was  of  too  peculiar  and  startling 
a  nature  to  admit  of  this.  Moreover,  its  singular 
connection  with  the  neighbourly  conviviality  of  the 
previous  evening,  when  she  was  forced  to  observe 
the  unusual  elation  of  her  husband's  mind,  gave 
food  for  questionings  and  thoughts,  which  in  no 
way  served  to  obliterate  the  dream,  or  to  tran 
quillize  her  feelings.  When  her  husband  returned 
home  at  the  close  of  day,  he  saw  in  her  counte 
nance,  for  the  first  time,  something  that  annoyed 
and  repelled  him.  Why  was  this  ?  What  was  the 
meaning  of  the  expression  ?  Did  she  doubt  him  in 
any  thing  ?  Ah  !  How  could  she  forget  her  dream 
— that  malignant  face  and  slimy  serpent — the  fatal 
cup  and  the  death  hidden  in  its  fascinating  con 
tents? 

It  was  later  in  the  evening.  The  flitting  sha 
dows  had  been  chased  away  by  the  sunny  faces 
that  gathered  around  the  tea-table.  Amid  their 
children,  all  sense  of  oppression,  of  doubt,  had  va 
nished.  The  kneeling  little  ones  had  said,  in  low, 
reverent  tones,  "  Our  Father,"  and  were  sleeping 
in  sweet  unconsciousness.  The  evening  had  waned, 
and  now,  in  accordance  with  habit,  Mr.  Erskine 
brought  forth  a  decanter,  and  was  about  filling  a 
glass  therefrom,  when  his  wife,  laying  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  said,  with  a  sad  earnestness  of  manner, 
which  she  strove  to  conceal  with  a  smile — 

"  Henry  dear,  forgive  me  for  saying  so,  but  the 


**•  •    .  i»  ** 

"  >* 

-*     'V   *' 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       207 


sight  of  that  decanter  and  glass  makes  me  shudder. 
I  have  thought  all  day  about  my  dream — the  ser 
pent  in  the  glass." 

"Bearing  your  husband's  face,"  said  Erskine, 
quickly,  and  with  rather  more  of  feeling  than  he 
meant  to  express;  "  and  you  fear  that  he  will  prove 
the  serpent  in  the  end,  to  suffocate  you  in  his  horrid 
folds." 

Henry  Erskine  !  what  could  have  tempted  you  to 
this  utterance  ?  Ah  !  the  truth  must  be  told.  It 
was  the  serpent  in  the  glass  !  False  friends,  as  he 
came  homeward  that  evening,  had  drawn  him  aside 
to  drink  with  them.  Alas !  a  malignant  demon 
was  in  the  cup,  and  its  poison  entered  his  bosom. 
He  did  not  drink  even  to  partial  physical  intoxica 
tion  ;  but  far  enough  to  disturb  the  calm,  rational 
balance  of  his  mind,  and  thus  to  change  the  order 
of  mental  influx.  He  was  no  longer  the  equipoised 
man,  and,  therefore,  no  longer  in  orderly  associa 
tion  with  pure  angelic  spirits.  Just  in  the  degree 
that  he  was  separated  from  these,  came  he  into  as 
sociation  with  spirits  of  an  opposite  character — 
demons  in  their  eager  desire  to  extinguish  all  that 
is  pure  and  good  in  human  nature.  And  thus  it 
ever  is,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  with  all  who 
disturb  the  rational  balance  of  their  minds,  either 
partially  or  mentally,  by  the  use  of  what  intoxi 
cates.  This  is  the  reason  why  the  way  of  the  ine 
briate,  even  from  the  beginning,  is  marked  by  such 
strange  infatuation.  He  seems  to  be  in  the  power 
of  evil  spirits  who  govern  him  at  will,  and  he  is,  ia 
reality,  thus  in  their  power. 


4 

208       THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 


An  instant  pallor  overspread  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Erskine,  at  her  husband's  cruel  retQrt.  What  an 
age  of  wretchedness  was  comprised  in  a  single  mo 
ment  of  time  !  Erskine  saw  the  effect  of  his  words, 
and  repented  their  utterance.  He  even,  for  a  mo 
ment,  partially  yielded  to  an  impulse  to  put  up  the 
liquor  untasted;  but  the  demon  tempter  was  too 
close  to  his  side,  and  too  prompt  to  whisper  that 
such  an  act  would  be  an  unmanly  (!)  concession  to 
his  wife's  foolish  weakness.  And  so,  his  mind 
already  partially  unbalanced,  as  has  been  seen,  he 
completed  the  dethronement  of  manly  reason,  by 
pouring  out  and  drinking  a  larger  draught  of  spirits 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  take. 

Alas  !  how  quickly  has  the  man  become  eclipsed 
— partially  now,  and  to  shine  forth  again  in  the 
unclouded  heavens.  Yet,  to  be  eclipsed  again,  and 
again,  until  final  darkness  covers  all. 

Reader,  we  have  shown  you  the  man.  When 
your  eyes  first  rested  upon  him,  at  a  single  point 
of  the  orbit  in  which  he  moved,  was  not  the  form 
beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  the  ministry  of  his 
affections  full  of  good  to  others  ?  We  have  another 
picture — not  that  of  a  man,  but  of  a  demon.  Will 
you  look  upon  it  ?  Ah !  if  you  turn  your  eyes 
away,  we  will  not  question  the  act.  It  is  a  picture 
upon  which  some  need  to  look,  and,  therefore,  it  is 
sketched,  though  with  a  hurried  and  reluctant  hand. 
Here  it  is. 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       209 


PART  SECOND. — THE  DEMON. 

"  SOME  brandy,"  said  a  pale-featured  man, 
coming  up  hurriedly  to  the  bar  of  a  small  country 
tavern,  and  reaching  out  his  hand  eagerly. 

"  Nothing  more  at  this  bar  without  the  money : 
that's  decided!"  was  the  tavern-keeper's  firmly 
spoken  answer. 

"  Just  a  single  glass,  for  Heaven's  sake !  I'll 
settle  all  off  to-morrow,"  urged  the  wretched  man, 
as  he  leaned  on  the  counter,  and  bent  far  over  to 
ward  the  shelves  on  which  the  bottles  of  liquor 
were  ranged. 

"  Not  a  drop.  And,  see  here,  Erskine,  I  don't 
want  you  about  here  any  more ;  so  just  keep  away 
for  good  and  all.  If  you'll  do  that,  I'll  wipe  off  old 
scores ;  if  not,  confound  me  !  if  I  don't  clap  you  in 
jail  for  debt.  I  won't  have  such  a  drunken,  good- 
for-nothing  fellow  hanging  about  my  premises. 
It's  disgraceful !" 

"  That's  hard  talk,  Grimes — hard  talk !"  said 
the  poor  wretch ;  "  and  you  with  so  much  of  my 
money  in  your  till.  But  come !  don't  be  so  close 
with  me.  There — do  you  see  my  hand" — and  he 
held  out  his  arm,  that  shook  with  a  strong  nervous 
trernour — "  I  must  have  something  to  steady  me,  or 
I'm  gone !" 

"  Not  a  dram  more.  I've  said  it,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it,"  coldly  and  cruelly  answered  the  landlord. 
"  And  what's  more,  you've  got  to  leave  this  bar 
instanter." 

And  as  Grimes  said  this,  he  passed  from  behind 
18* 


210       THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 


the  counter,  with  the  evident  intention  of  forcing 
his  customer  out  of  the  house.  A  quick  change 
was  now  visible,  not  only  in  the  face  of  Erskine, 
but  in  his  whole  person.  His  hand,  that  lay  trem 
bling  against  the  bar  railing,  at  once  became  steady, 
and  griped  the  railing  firmly;  his  stooping  body, 
in  appearance  so  weak  and  unstrung,  rose  up  erect, 
while  a  fierce,  defiant  scowl  darkened  his  counte 
nance.  By  this  time  the  landlord  had  left  the  bar, 
and  was  within  a  few  feet  of  him. 

"  I  want  you  to  leave  here  at  once,"  said  Grimes, 
sharply,  waving  his  hand,  and  nodding  his  head 
toward  the  door  as  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  not  just  ready  to  go,"  was  the  cool  reply 
of  Erskine,  as  his  now  glittering  eyes  fixed  them 
selves  on  the  face  of  Grimes. 

"  Go  you  must !  I've  said  it,  and  that  ends  it. 
And,  see  here,  you  loafing  vagabond ! — if  you  ever 
set  your  foot  inside  of  my  house  again,  I'll  cowskin 
you.  Go !" 

And  he  was  about  to  lay  his  hand  on  Erskine, 
when  the  latter  stepped  backward  a  pace  or  two, 
saying,  as  he  did  so — 

"  Don't  touch  me,  Bill  Grimes !  I've  got  the 
devil  in  me  now,  and  had  as  lief  kill  you  as  look  at 
you.  So  don't  tempt  me." 

"  Bah  !"  ejaculated  the  landlord,  contemptuously, 
advancing  again  upon  the  inebriate,  and  making  an 
attempt,  as  he  did  so,  to  grasp  him  by  the  collar, 
for  the  purpose  of  choking  him  into  submission. 
His  hand  had  scarcely  touched  the  person  of  Erskine, 
ere  the  latter,  with  a  demoniac  cry,  sprang  upon 
kim  with  so  sudden  a  shock  as  to  bear  him  to  the 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       211 


floor.  As  the  landlord  fell  beneath  his  assailant, 
the  grip  of  the  latter  was  on  his  throat.  To  free 
himself  from  this  he  deemed  an  easy  thing ;  but  for 
once  he  was  in  error.  He  was  not  now  dealing, 
as  he  supposed,  with  a  nerveless  and  exhausted 
drunkard,  whom  a  child  might  overcome.  The 
poor,  despised  wretch  was  suddenly  transformed, 
through  an  influx  of  malignant  passions  into  "the 
disordered  elements  of  his  mind,  to  a  fierce  wild 
beast.  There  was  an  iron  grip  in  his  hand,  as  it- 
tightened  on  the  throat  of  his  prostrate  victim ; 
while  the  terrible  expression  of  his  eyes  and  face 
too  clearly  indicated  his  purpose  to  commit  murder. 
And  fatal  would  have  been  the  result,  had  not  the 
timely  entrance  of  a  third  person  prevented  the 
catastrophe. 

"  I  told  you  the  devil  was  in  me,"  said  Erskine, 
as  he  shook  himself  free  from  the  hands  of  the  man 
who  had  dragged  him  from  the  fallen  body  of  the 
landlord,  and  stood  glaring  a  fiendlike  defiance 
upon  the  now  thoroughly  frightened  Grimes.  "  I 
meant  to  have  killed  you ;  and  I  feel  like  doing  it 
yet.  It  would  be  nothing  more  than  a  just  retri 
bution.  You  beggar  and  destroy,  body  and  soul,  a 
poor  wretch,  while  he  has  money  to  pay  you  for  the 
hellish  work ;  but,  when  every  sixpence  he  had  in 
the  world  lies  safely  in  your  till,  you  would  thrust 
him  out  with  biting  insult,  even  though  he  stands 
shivering  in  nervous  exhaustion  before  you,  and 
almost  begs  for  a  mouthful  of  stimulant  to  save 
him  from  horrible  madness.  Bill  Grimes !  you 
may  be  thankful  for  your  escape  now,  but  the  work 
shall  be  done  more  surely,  if  ever  my  hand  reaches 


212        THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 

your    accursed    throat    again.       Give    me    some 
brandy !" 

These  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  loud,  fierce, 
commanding  voice.  Grimes  waited  not  for  their 
repetition,  but  hurried  into  his  bar,  and  taking  a 
decanter  of  brandy,  placed  it  upon  the  counter. 
This  was  seized  by  Erskine,  and  a  large  glass  filled 
more  than  half  full  of  the  drugged  and  fiery  liquor, 
that  poisoned  while  it  fevered  the  system.  At  a 
single  draught  this  disappeared,  and  his  hand  was 
on  the  decanter  again,  when  both  the  landlord  and 
the  person  who  had  just  entered  interposed  to  pre 
vent  his  drinking  any  further.  Madly  he  resisted 
this  interference ;  but  there  were  two  against  him 
now,  and,  though  he  struggled  desperately,  he  was 
soon  hurled  into  the  road,  and  the  door  barred 
against  him. 

Homeward  the  degraded  man  soon  after  turned 
his  steps.  Homeward  !  Had  he  a  home  ?  Reader, 
ten  years  have  passed  since  you  heard  his  mellow 
tones  swelling  upward  on  the  evening  air,  in  heart- 
gushing  thankfulness  for  the  possession  of  a  home. 
He  was  a  man  then — a  noble-minded,  unselfish, 
love-inspired  man,  into  whose  arms,  and  upon  whose 
bosom,  were  folded  household  treasures,  more  prized 
than  all  worldly  wealth  or  honours.  You  saw  the 
vine  and  flower-wreathed  cottage  nestling  beneath 
the  old  elms,  where  a  joyful  reunion  took  place 
after  a  brief  absence.  You  entered,  gazed  upon  the 
happy  group  within,  and  called  that  home  an 
earthly  paradise. 

Go  home  with  Henry  Erskine  again.  Only  ten 
brief  years  have  passed.  Is  he  still  in  the  cottage 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       213 


under  the  elms?  No,  no,  reader.  You  will  not 
find  him  there.  Long,  long  ago,  his  wife  and  chil 
dren  passed  weeping  from  its  door.  But  yonder,  in 
that  old,  dingy  hovel,  the  windows  shattered,  the 
little  enclosure  broken  down,  and  every  sign  of 
vegetation,  except  rank  weeds,  gone — there  you 
will  find  the  wretched  family  of  Henry  Erskine. 
Ah !  no  less  changed  are  they.  You  will  look  in 
vain  on  their  countenances  for  signs  of  gentle, 
loving  affections.  In  the  fall  of  him  to  whom  they 
clung,  they  have  also  fallen — not  into  the  debasing 
slough  of  sensuality,  where  he  lies  prostrate  and 
almost  powerless  ;  but  evil  affections  have  gradually 
prevailed,  until  the  garden  of  their  minds  is  over 
run  with  thorns  and  briers. 

You  enter  the  wretched  habitation.  Surely 
there  must  be  some  mistake !  In  twice  ten  years  a 
transformation  such  as  this  could  hardly  have  been 
wrought.  That  sharp-featured,  hollow-eyed  woman, 
who  sits  idle,  and  brooding  there,  as  if  all  hope  in 
life  had  faded,  cannot  be  the  once  glad-hearted 
Mrs.  Erskine  of  "  Elm  Cottage"  ?  These  hungry, 
miserably  clad,  prematurely  old-looking  children — 
are  they  the  same  we  saw  in  that  pleasant  home,  so 
gay  and  glad  with  their  happy  father?  It  is  in 
credible.  This  cannot  be  the  home  of  a  man. 
Alas,  no  !  It  is  the  abode  of  a  demon  !  And,  see  ! 
he  enters  now  the  dwelling  accursed  by  his  pre 
sence.  Not  as  a  man  comes  he,  with  blessings  for 
the  beloved  inmates,  but  as  a  demon,  scattering 
curses.  The  mother  starts  up,  the  children  shrink 
away — all  feel  the  shadow  that  rests  upon  their 
spirits  grow  darker. 


214       THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 

From  some  cause  the  wretched  being  is  in  an  un 
wonted  state  of  excitement.  There  is  something 
fearful  to  look  upon  in  his  face — a  demoniac  expres 
sion  that  appals.  He  is  angry  with  himself — angry 
with  every  thing.  In  his  heart  is  a  fierce  desire  to 
commit  violence. 

"  Ha !  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  cries,  on 
discovering  that  his  oldest  boy  is  in  the  room. 
"  Why  have  you  come  home  ?" 

The  frightened  lad  stammers  out  something  about 
having  offended  his  master,  and  being  turned  away 
from  his  place.  Really  innocent  of  any  deliberate 
fault  is  the  boy.  He  is  not  the  wronger,  but  the 
wronged.  He  has  tried  to  please  a  hard,  exacting 
master,  but  failed  in  the  earnest  effort.  All  this 
the  mother  comprehends.  But  the  insane  father 
takes  every  thing  for  granted  against  his  son. 
Seizing  him  cruelly  by  the  hair,  he  strikes  him 
with  his  clenched  fist,  and  assails  him  with  curses. 
Maddened  at  the  sight,  the  mother  seizes  a  heavy 
stick,  and,  with  a  single  blow,  paralyzes  the  arm  of 
her  husband. 

She  might  have  spared  that  blow.  Even 'as  it 
was  descending,  the  hand  that  clutched  the  hair  of 
the  boy  was  loosening  its  grasp,  and  a  paralyzing 
terror  seizing  the  heart  of  the  wretched  drunkard. 
What  has  fixed  his  eyes  ?  Why  do  they  start  thus, 
almost  from  their  sockets  ?  Is  a  lion  in  the  door  ? 
— some  appalling  destruction  at  hand  ?  Now  he  has 
sprung  to  his  feet — an  ashy  pallor  on  his  disfigured 
countenance — and  both  hands  are  raised  to  keep 
off  some  object  that  he  sees  approaching.  You  see 
nothing.  No — your  eyes  are  not  opened ;  and  pray 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON.       215 


to  Heaven  they  never  may  be  as  his  are  at  this 
fearful  moment.  But,  as  real  to  him  as  the  open 
door  itself,  entering  through  that  door,  and  ap 
proaching  him  nearer  and  nearer,  is  the  horrible 
form  of  a  serpent,  bearing  upward  the  head  of  a 
man.  In  the  face,  all  malignant  passions  are  in 
vivid  play.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  comes — nearer 
and  nearer !  Backward  the  frightened  wretch 
shrinks,  almost  howling  in  terror,  until  he  crouches 
in  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  both  hands  raised  to 
keep  off  the  monster  that  still  approaches.  Now, 
the  serpent  is  on  him  !  Now,  its  cold,  slimy  body 
is  enwreathing  neck  and  limbs  !  Oh  !  that  yell  of 
horror !  Will  it  ever  be  done  ringing  in  your  ears? 
It  was  as  the  cry  of  a  lost  demon ! 

Come  !  come  away!  It  is  too  horrible.  We  can 
not  endure  the  sight.  There — shut  the  door — hide 
from  all  eyes  but  those  of  the  wretched  inmates, 
the  appalling  terrors  of  that  room. 

You  breathe  more  freely — yes — but  enough  has 
been  said  and  heard  to  make  you  sad  for  days — to 
make  you  thoughtful,  at  times,  for  life. 

Oh,  what  a  work  !  The  transformation  of  a  man 
into  a  demon !  And  what  on  this  beautiful  earth 
has  power  to  effect  so  fearful  a  transformation? 
Is  the  fatal  secret  known  ?  Do  fathers,  husbands, 
councilmen,  legislators,  statesmen,  know  in  what 
the  terrible  power  lies  ?  Ah,  strange,  yet  true,  and 
sad  to  tell,  the  monster  whose  breath  poisons,  whose 
touch  blights  every  leaf  of  virtue,  stalks  daily 
abroad,  his  name  emblazoned  on  his  forehead ! 
And,  stranger  far  than  this — councilmen  and  legis 
lators,  in  nearly  every  state,  take  bribes  from  this 


'•1  £ 
"  •*  •   "  %%' 

216       THE  MAN  AND  THE  DEMON. 

monster,  for  the  privilege  of  working  these  fearful 
transformations.  They  sell,  for  money,  (can  it  be 
believed?)  yes,  they  sell  for  money,  the  right  to 
curse  the  hearths  and  homes  of  their  fellow-men — 
to  scatter  destruction  to  souls  and  bodies,  over  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land ! 

You  have  seen  one  man  transformed  to  a 
demon !  It  is  the  history  of  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands.  All  around  you  are  in  progress, 
like  transformations.  When,  when  will  the  work 
cease  ?  When  will  the  monster  of  destruction  be 
bound  ? 

Man,  husband,  father,  citizen,  sleep  no  longer ! 
Up !  arouse  yourself !  There  is  a  terrible  enemy 
abroad.  Come  up  bravely,  resolutely  to  the  battle, 
and  lay  not  off  your  armour  until  the  victory  is 
won.  Fear  not — falter  not.  All  the  powers  of 
heaven  are  on  your  side,  and  if  you  fight  on 
bravely,  you  will  conquer  at  last.  God  speed  the 
day  of  victory ! 


THE   END. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


DEC  2  o  1976 

I AN  Jo  m 


REMINGTON  RAND  INC.  20 


213         (533) 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONW.  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


001  372  738  3 


PS 

1039 
A78sh 


